


The same but different

by MelanieQuinlan



Category: Whitechapel (TV), Wire in the Blood
Genre: Crimes & Criminals, F/M, Friends to Lovers, One Night Stands, Serial Killers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 14:00:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 37,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29885631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelanieQuinlan/pseuds/MelanieQuinlan
Summary: DI Chandler finds himself investigating yet another serial killer. He gets unexpected help in the form of criminal profiler Tony Hill. When DCI Jordan also shows up, things get complicated,
Relationships: Carol Jordan/ Joseph Chandler, Tony Hill/Carol Jordan
Kudos: 1





	The same but different

“Oh, for God's sake,” Chandler muttered. As if it weren’t bad enough that he'd been called out to a crime scene so early on a Monday morning that even he had not been ready, some silly civilian had apparently just breached the outer cordon. Chandler had seen the man from the corners of his eyes as he was trying to pay attention to Miles' chatting to Dr Llewellyn. He was trying to get an overview of what awaited them inside the white tent, which had been erected to shield the crime scene from the torrential rain which had started up sometime during the night. Chandler scowled as he watched that person amble across the muddy stretch of grass, obviously deeply lost in thought and totally oblivious to the buzz of activity around him. He was a middle-aged man, who on first glance seemed to be about as tall as Miles. It was hard to tell exactly, as the guy walked oddly; shoulders slumped, head bowed. It made him look smaller than he possibly was. He had a slight limp, and his thinning dark brown hair was plastered to his skull, as his jacket had no hood and neither was, he carrying an umbrella. But what irritated Chandler the most was the blue plastic bag, which was swinging back and forth on the man's wrist.  
“Damn it, the fool might drop whatever he has in his bag and contaminate the crime scene,” he thought. Aloud he said. “Excuse me.” He turned away from Miles and Dr Llewellyn and jogged over to the strange man.  
“What do you think you're doing?” He shouted to be heard over the incessantly falling rain. “You can't be here! You're disturbing a police investigation. Who let you through anyway?”  
The man with the blue plastic bag stopped in his tracks and looked up, an expression of bewilderment on his face. He stood rooted to the spot and watched with wide-eyed fascination as Chandler jogged closer to him.  
“Didn't you hear me? You can't be here, this is a crime scene,” Chandler said as he came to a halt before the smaller man.  
“Hmm?” Was the man's greeting. “Oh, no, no. It's perfectly alright. My name is Tony Hill. Dr Tony Hill, I'm the...”  
“Look,” Chandler was getting impatient. “This is all very well, Mr Hill but I'd rather you continue your walk elsewhere.” He hesitated for a second, then reached for the man's elbow to lead him away. He was all suited up, with those horrible latex gloves in place, so really it didn't matter who or what he touched.  
“Ah,” I can see what you're thinking but like I said, it's fine. Where is my pass? I swear I had it just a moment ago.” Mr Hill started to pad down his jacket, turning pockets inside out. When he didn't find what he was looking for, he fished a set of keys out of the pocket of this ill-fitting trousers, followed by a wallet and a leaflet on road closures on the M5. He juggled all the items in one hand for a moment, while at the same time trying to untangle the blue plastic bag from his wrist. “Can you hold this for a second?” He asked and without waiting for an answer, thrust the collection of personal belongings at Chandler.  
“What?” Chandler was too stunned to say anything else as he struggled not to let any of the objects slip out of his grip and into the mud. Those might not have been his possessions, but he didn't fancy digging around in the soggy dirt regardless.  
“Sir, it's okay.”  
Chandler looked up to see Kent striding along the blue-and-white crime scene tape to his left. The young man was already suited up as well, the white hood securely fastened over his dark curls. Which made him look even more wide-eyed than usual. Like a deer.  
“It's okay,” he repeated when he saw his boss frown. “The Commander just called. He wants us to consult Dr Hill.” Kent gestured in the direction of the man, who was still going through the contents of his plastic bag. “He's a clinical psychologist.”  
Chandler could only stare at Kent in disbelieve. The questions were running riot in his head. Why had the Commander called? And why not him? Why did he want to involve a clinical psychologist? And why hadn't he told him so himself? He felt his fingers itch and longed for his jar of Tiger Balm but suited up as he was it was impossible to reach without unzipping the whole bloody suit and having to start dressing up in protective gear again.  
Dr Hill suddenly looked up at him, a triumphant smile plastered across his face. “Here! I found it!” He held up his consultant pass, looking every bit the eager schoolboy who wants to show off his A in maths.  
Chandler resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “I'm sorry about this misunderstanding,” he managed a little lamely. “Welcome Dr Hill.” He wanted to extend his hand in greeting but found he still held Dr Hill's things. “Those are yours.”  
“Oh, yes. Of course,” Dr Hill looked confused for a second, then smiled again. “Just drop everything in here.” He held open his blue plastic bag and Chandler had no choice but to do as he'd been told.  
What kind of man was this, he mused, who carried his personal belongings in a blue plastic bag? “My name is DI Chandler and this,” he pointed at Miles, who had been watching the whole exchange with a smirk on his face, “is my sergeant, DS Miles. What brings you here, Dr Hill?”  
“You don't know?” Dr Hill frowned and wiped water from his face. He seemed unperturbed by the fact that he was pretty much soaked through to the skin. He held up his hands and looked up at Chandler. “I was called last night by Commander Anderson, asking me to consult with your team on this murder investigation.”  
Chandler only nodded. He'd have to discuss this with Miles later. That this outsider apparently knew more about their current crime scene than his team so far was simply unacceptable. It could only mean that Anderson kept a close watch on him and his cases. That he had an informant close to him. Chandler pushed the thought of someone on his team being a secret agent for the Commander from his mind. He'd worry about this late. He had more urgent things on his mind right now. Like keeping his face in front of a clinical psychologist.  
Miles gave the newcomer a one over but kept his face neutral. Just barely but still. “Morning,” he grumbled.  
Dr Hill nodded a greeting but barely glanced at the sergeant. “Look, I'm sorry if my involvement inconveniences you. I usually get called into an investigation where everybody is informed about my presence. Not that they usually like it, but that's a different matter.”  
Chandler shrugged his shoulders. “It really isn't your fault, Dr Hill. If the Commander wants you involved, that's alright with me. You seem to be ahead of us, though. We still have to get a clear picture of the crime scene. If you excuse me?”  
Dr Hill nodded, looking somewhat at a loss. “Shouldn't I get suited up as well?” He called after Chandler as he turned on his heel and bent low to enter the white tent.  
“Take your time,” Miles snapped as he passed the odd man. “Our pathologist is in there right now. Next are the SOCOs and then, once the photographer is done, it's your turn.”  
“I guessed so much,” Dr Hill returned. “I have worked on cases like this before.”  
“You don't say,” Miles' face remained blank, but his voice dripped sarcasm. “You certainly don't look the part.”  
Dr Hill pulled a face but let the remark go. He had had to put up with worse. Police officers didn't like having their authority challenged, especially not by outsiders such as him. They usually had to be won over by the practicality of having what the public liked to call a profiler on the case. He had time. They were just getting started after all.  
“What do you make of this psychiatrist bloke, boss?” Miles asked after he had entered the tent.  
Chandler stood with his back towards him. He didn't answer for a moment. Miles stood next to him and sucked in a breath as he saw what his boss was staring at:  
A young white woman, possible in her late 20s, had been placed underneath a tall oak tree. Her long hair formed a halo around her head, her arms lay outstretched close to her body, palms facing upwards. Her eyes were closed, and she looked almost peaceful, like she could awaken from a deep sleep any moment, were it not for the grizzly cut across her chest, which had been stitched up with large, hap-hazard stitches. She was naked and pale. All blood had been washed from her skin by the rain but even if the day had been sunny, there would not have been a speck on her.  
Miles knew because they had seen this before, on another crime scene. On another girl. The killer had washed her clean, so thoroughly that at spots the upper layer of the epidermis had been scrapped off. Miles secretly thought that he killer might feel the compulsion of keeping his victims clean, but so far had not dared to mention it to his boss. It was only a theory after all and one which surely rang a bit too close to home for DI Chandler's liking. Miles shook his head slightly. Four years ago, he would have used this possible similarity to taunt his superior but these days he valued his boss too much, both as a copper and as a friend to make such cruel fun of his boss’s OCD.  
Chandler finally turned. He looked pale but not close to one of his panic attacks. Thanks for small mercies.  
“Psychologist, Miles,” he corrected the DC. “Clinical psychologist.”  
“Whatever,” Miles mumbled, thinking that his boss could use the help of one of those mind doctors more than the team. He bit his tongue and said nothing more, waiting for Chandler to draw the first conclusions.  
“Looks like this has been done by the same person who killed Tracy Edmonds,” Chandler said carefully. “The location is similar: a fairly remote patch of greenery, hidden by tall trees. The victim has been placed in the same sort of pose. Her chest has been cut open and stitched up again.”  
Dr Llewellyn joined them. She seemed glad to be out of the pouring rain. Chandler couldn't blame her, being as heavily pregnant as she was. How she could stomach the gruesome sights and smells in her line of work in her condition would forever remain a mystery to him.  
“What have you found so far?” He asked.  
“Not much, which really isn't much of a surprise, given that it has rained non-stop for the last ten hours. No footwear marks anywhere nearby and nothing on her body which could help us identify her killer. We'll look for fibres, fingerprints, and the like at the lab of course but from what I've seen here, I'd say, she has been as scrupulous washed clean as our last victim. But our killer has gone one step further,” she said and pointed at the dead girl in the rain. “He has removed all her body hair apart from the hair on her head and her face.”  
Miles pulled a face. “What's he doing this for? Bloody creep.”  
“He could be keeping the hair as a souvenir, although I'd expect him to choose the hair on their scalps for that purpose,” Chandler mused.  
Dr Llewellyn nodded. “I agree, the souvenir theory doesn't seem likely. Her chest has been opened again. The wound is almost identical to the one on the last victim. I don't know for sure yet, but I'd say that her ribcage has been opened and her heart removed. Something has been put into its place before the wound was stitched up but this time, I'll doubt we'll find a bunch of bees.”  
“What makes you say that?” Chandler asked. He wrinkled his nose as images from Tracy Edmond's autopsy flashed through his mind. Her white skin had acquired a blueish tint and looked almost translucent in the harsh neon glow of the morgue. It had formed a grizzly contrast to the vivid reds of her opened chest. While the original cuts and the way the ribcage had been opened and partially removed suggested that whoever had done this had some skill and knowledge of anatomy, the stitches with which the wound had been closed were crude. Even Chandler was no longer surprised to see a killer remove an organ from a victim, but it had surprised him to see what this killer had chosen to replace Tracy Edmond's heart with: two large handfuls of bees, along with a tiny piece of a honeycomb.  
“Well,” the doctor put the hands on her hips and stretched her back. “Whatever is inside of this girl's chest, it is much more unyielding than our dead bees were. My guess would be a small animal, maybe a bird.”  
“Is this a cult thing?” Miles blurted out. Chandler paled and shot him a quick look. God, Miles could have kicked himself. After the disaster that the case with the Abrahamians had ended in, another cult on the lose in Whitechapel was the last thing they needed.  
“Can't rule it out but I doubt it,” Dr Llewellyn answered. “There's really no evidence that we are dealing with more than one killer.”  
They left the tent to make room for the crime scene technicians, who had arrived moments ago.  
“Oh, look at him,” Miles sneered as they both unzipped their protective coveralls. “He's still standing there in the rain, looking like a bloody poodle!”  
Chandler looked over his shoulder and indeed found Dr Hill still standing where they had left him, looking somewhat lost. He took pity on the man and waved Kent over.  
“See to it that Dr Hill gets all suited up and fetch him a cup of tea or something.”  
Kent nodded eagerly. “Yes, Sir.”  
“'And Kent? Did you speak to the Commander this morning? What did he say?”  
The younger man shook his head. “No Sir. I don't think any of us spoke to him directly. When I arrived at the office, the case had just come in. It was barely ten minutes after the 999-call reporting a motionless naked girl laying in the rain. A fax came in, signed by Commander Anderson. It didn't say much, only that we should expect a certain Dr Hill and that we were requested to make use of his expertise.”  
“Ah,” Chandler couldn't think of anything else to say. This was odd to say the least. Either Anderson had been tipped off about the killing by someone who had been unwilling to call 999, or else Dr Hill's arrival simply coincided with the second killing. “Thank you, Kent. That's all for now.”  
Kent nodded and walked over to the profiler. Chandler watched for a moment as the two men talked but his mind was elsewhere. Was this a sign that Anderson was trying to replace him? Chandler snorted. He would've replaced himself, if stepping down and admitting defeat wouldn't be an unthinkable option. What else was there to his life, if not the thrill of the hunt and his desperate desire to see justice done, to provide a voice for the victims and their families?  
“Hey boss,” Miles snapped him out his reverie. “You'll catch your death in the rain like that. Come on, let's go back to the office.”  
“I'll be fine, Miles,” Chandler managed a small smile despite of his worries. “It's just a bit of rain. You go back, if you want but I'd really like to see what Dr Hill is going to do once he's allowed to inspect the crime scene.”  
Miles huffed. “Make some cryptic remarks which in retrospect will make perfect sense.”  
Chandler laughed, which made Miles look up in surprise. His boss didn't laugh all that often.  
“He's a clinical psychologist, not a medium.”  
“Oh, I'll never live that one down, won't I?” Miles grumbled but there was a spark of mischief in his eyes.  
Chandler grinned. “No. You know too many of my weak spots for that.”  
Kent came over, two paper cups in hand. He handed one to Miles and one to Chandler.  
“Coffee for you, Skip and green tea for you, Sir.”  
Chandler accepted his cup gratefully. His hands were cold and clammy and the wind bit mercilessly through the thin layer of his overall. “Thanks.”  
Kent beamed but hurried back to help Dr Hill step into his crime scene suit.  
It took the SOCOs another half hour to clear the scene. The photographer was quick and finally Dr Hill was allowed into the tent. Chandler and Miles accompanied him, partly to make sure that nothing was tempered with and partly out of genuine curiosity. Dr Hill walked forward without hesitation. He stood by the dead girl's feet and looked down at her for a long moment, then crouched next to her and studied her skin.  
“Smooth,” he muttered. He looked at her open palms but said nothing, then climbed back to his feet. “This is exactly as she has been found?” He asked.  
“Yes, Sir,” Kent, who had joined them, answered. “The constable who'd been sent to investigate the 999-call said he knew right away that resuscitation would not be needed. For obvious reasons,” he indicated the vicious cut in the girl's chest.  
Dr Hill nodded. “Do we know who made the 999 call?”  
“Yes,” Kent flipped open his notepad and turned a few pages. “A Mr Sebastian A'Tan. He was out getting the morning paper from a nearby corner shop and took the short cut through the park.”  
“Sebastian A'Tan?” D Hill repeated. “That's an odd name.”  
“I thought so, too, Sir,” Kent agreed. Looking at his boss, he continued: “I got his address and phone number from the switch board. I've already phoned him up and scheduled a visit for later this morning.”  
“Good work, Kent,” Chandler said. “Keep me informed.”  
Dr Hill had wandered off and walked another round around the corpse. He looked at it from all angles, sometimes kneeling in the mud, sometimes bending so low that his nose almost touched the dead girl's skin. When he got up again, he walked past the policemen and out of the tent.  
“What the hell...?” Miles began, but Dr Hill returned, Dr Llewellyn and three SOCOs in tow.  
The body was lifted off the ground and placed into a body bag. They carried it out of the tent, where it no doubt would be placed on a stretcher, wheeled to a police van and transported into Dr Llewellyn's morgue.  
When they had gone, Dr Hill turned to face the pathologist. “Do you happen to have a large plastic sheet I could use?”  
Dr Llewellyn threw Chandler an irritated look but when he nodded, she said: “Yes, of course. Let me fetch it for you.”  
The pathologist came back a few minutes later, a folded plastic sheet in her hands. She handed it to Dr Hill and stood next to Miles. They all watched as Dr Hill unfolded the sheet and threw it down on the ground on the spot where the body of the dead girl had lain. He pulled and prodded a little to alter its position on the waterlogged ground. When he was satisfied, he crouched down. He gazed up and around intently for a moment, then lay down on the plastic sheet. He mimicked the posture of the dead girl as best he could and lay very till for quite some time. He stared ahead and then closed his eyes.  
Miles scoffed. Chandler placed a warning hand on his sergeant's shoulder, not because he approved of the strange man's methods but because he wanted to keep things civil. Inwardly he cringed. The doctor had managed to get mud all over his clothes. He sincerely hoped that there would be a spare seat in the police car Kent had arrived in. The thought of getting the seats in his car all wet and muddy by giving Dr Hill a ride made him squirm inside. He forced a deep breath and managed to keep still. Another minute passed, then Dr Hill jumped up.  
“Do you mind if I go back to my hotel to change into a dry set of clothes before I join you in the incident room?” He asked.  
Chandler breathed a sigh of relief. “Kent, would you please call Dr Hill a taxi and tell him where to find us? I'm heading back to the office.”  
When they were out of ear shot, Miles said. “Glad you don't have to take that nut-case back to the office yourself, aren't you? The mud stains would be hard to scrub out of your cream-coloured seats, boss.”  
“Well, yes,” Chandler replied. “But I'm also glad he's getting himself dried up. We really can't afford to lose the psychologists as well as the suspects.”  
Miles looked up at his boss in alarm but when he caught sight of the corners of Chandler's mouth twitching, he laughed.

Back at the Whitechapel police station Chandler changed into a dry shirt and after washing his hands very thoroughly, joined his team in the office. A fresh whiteboard contained nothing but a couple of crime scene photographs. Chandler sighed. More than anything he hated not knowing a victim's name. For in his mind, as long as they remained nameless, they were little more than ghosts. Unknown, un-mourned. Forgotten. While he didn't relish having to break the bad news to someone that a person they had loved had been murdered – the raw emotions of grief, sorrow and anger overwhelmed him -, he hoped he at least brought closure, and an end to a living nightmare of not knowing and always fearing the worst. He stood in front of the whiteboard, resisting the urge to re-pin the photographs because they were askew.  
He picked up a black felt pen and wrote 'Lenore' on top of the board. Choosing temporary names for his victims helped him remind himself that they were more than dead flesh and bones, they were people. Human beings with a past, with feelings and a soul. Chandler shook his head. Where had that last thought come from? He was not religious, now less so than ever. Being considered being the Lord's messenger by a bunch of doomsday cult members had been the most recent straw in his long-standing disapproval of religion.  
He turned and surveyed his team: Mansell was on the phone, talking urgently. Riley was leafing through a pile of what looked like missing persons reports. Miles stood by the door, talking to a fresh-faced constable, who was in charge of the door-to-door of the neighbourhood. Buchan squeezed past Miles, a couple of files under one arm. Only Kent's desk stood empty. He was already on his way to interview the man who'd found Lenore.  
When Miles had dismissed the constable, he crossed the room and joined Chandler at the whiteboard. “It's Poe now?” He asked in a voice which left no doubt that he did not approve of his boss’s choice.  
“It's up to us to give her her real name back,” was all Chandler said. He took a step forward and addressed his team. “Can I have your attention for a moment?”  
Immediately silence fell. It still made Chandler a bit uneasy to have all eyes staring up at him but he'd learned that he'd earned the respect of the people he worked with, so it was okay. Sort of.  
“We are currently running our victim's fingerprints through the database. We are looking at missing person's reports; everything to find out her identity. Dr Llewellyn is having a look at the body as we speak. Once we have her report, check for dental records and the like. See if there's any CCTV footage from close to the park's entrances, nearby car parks and other spots which could be of significance. Ask people in the area if they've seen or heard anything unusual last night or in the early hours of the morning. Find all the dog owners, cab drivers, milk men, insomniacs and whoever else might have been out on the streets near that park.”  
“It's the same bloke who put the bees into poor Tracy, isn't it?” Riley asked. She looked shaken. Not that Chandler blamed her for it, the girls could have been her daughters.  
“It's too early to say for sure,” Chandler said cautiously, “but I think it might be.”  
“Oh, great” Mansell chimed in. “Another fucking serial killer.”  
“While I can see what makes you say that, I have to point out that, technically speaking, we are only allowed to call our offender a 'serial killer' if we are dealing with at least three dead bodies, all exhibiting the same modus operandi.”  
All heads turned, and confused muttering broke out as his team looked Dr Hill up and down. Chandler had not noticed the man slipping in, which annoyed him.  
“You are correct, of course. But if you examine the crime scene photographs of our last victim, you'll surely agree that the killer's modus operandi is extremely specific and has been quite well executed. Which suggests that Tracy Edmonds was not his first victim; we simply have not found the earlier bodies yet.”  
Dr Hill tilted his head and nodded thoughtfully. He stared into space for a moment, then suddenly remembering where he was, smiled and said: “I've already studied Tracy Edmond's case files. They were sent to me before I got on the train down to London.”  
Chandler stared at the man. He could feel Mile's eyes on him but oddly he found that rather reassuring. He quickly introduced Dr Hill and explained about his role in the investigation. More murmuring rose, which told Chandler that his team was as happy about Dr Hill's involvement as he was.  
“Alright, get to work. Dr Hill, a word, if you please.” Chandler indicated that Dr Hill should follow him to his office. He held the door open, closed it behind them and drew the blinds.  
“Dr Hill, I'd appreciate it, if you were frank with me. Why are you here?”  
Dr Hill, who was on the verge of sitting down in front of Chandler's desk, froze in mid-motion. It was a comical sight, as he craned his neck to look up at the DI. He frowned. “I'm not sure I understand your question.”  
Chandler sighed. “Look, the first thing I heard about your involvement was when you were already at the crime scene this morning. This puzzles me, as we couldn't have gotten to the crime scene any faster than we did. Yet you arrived shortly after us. Plus, you seemed to know what to expect. I find this a bit... odd.”  
“Oh,” Dr Hill finally sat down and watched Chandler do the same. “I had no idea you were not informed. I thought Commander Anderson, or whatever his name was, would take care of this. Otherwise, I would've called you from the train and told you myself. Sorry.”  
Chandler inclined his head but said nothing. After a moment of awkward silence, Dr Hill continued: “Your Commander called me yesterday evening, so well in advance of the second murder. I happened to be at the crime scene this morning because DC Riley told me where I could find you after I came here and found your office empty.”  
Chandler suddenly felt stupid. His finger's itched to reach for the jar of Tiger Balm which sat so temptingly close in front of him on his desk. Instead, he pressed his palms flat onto the wooden surface and forced a smile. “I see. It certainly makes sense. One of our latest cases involved spies and conspiracy theories, I guess those things got under my skin more than I would've liked them to.”  
“Hmm. Yes, empathy can be a curse,” Dr Hill returned in a near whisper. “Oh, but I haven't told you why I was sent here, have I? I worked with Bradfield police three years ago on a case which was identical to yours. All in all, we dealt with four dead girls, aged between 19 and 27. All fairly tall, slender and with long, brown hair. All had been killed by a stab wound to the heart, then their chests had been opened, filled with a variety of small animals and stitched up again. All had been left in public places with a bit of greenery, like parks and a forest clearing close to a parking lot. Commander Anderson will have no doubt emailed you the file by now.”  
Chandler could only stare at the odd man in front of him. This time he didn't manage to suppress the urge and reached for the jar of Tiger Balm, unscrewed the lid, and massaged a little bit onto his temples. Thankfully, Dr Hill didn't comment. When he had regained some of his composure, Chandler rose to his feet. “My sergeant has to hear this.”  
He opened the door and called out to Miles, who was looking at something Mansell held out for him. He shot him a quizzical look across the room and then straightened up. He crossed the office with a few long strides. “What is it, boss?”  
Chandler motioned at Dr Hill to repeat what he'd just told him and sat down behind his desk. Miles listened, and his face clouded over the more he heard.  
“Three years ago?” He asked. “That means you never caught the killer and now he's back finishing what he started.”  
“No, not quite,” Dr Hill said mysteriously. “You see, we did catch the killer. Caught him in the act of mutilating the fourth girl's body. There wasn't the shadow of a doubt that it was him: Charlie Trepford, a 35 years-old night porter, who had spent the first 5 years of his life locked in the cellar of his religious grandmother's house.”  
“Jesus,” Miles cursed.  
“Are you saying this person somehow managed to escape from prison?” Chandler asked.  
Dr Hill shook his head. “No. He cannot have escaped because he never went to prison. He drank down some poison before he could be cuffed and died a most horrible death. It took him nearly 8 hours to die and the nurses said he screamed for the most part.”  
“Then who is killing those girls now?” Miles asked. He exchanged a look with his boss. Chandler thought he knew what the sergeant thought. Evil walked the streets of Whitechapel. Had done so for centuries. Wingfield's provocateur had once more seduced someone to do her evil deeds. Chandler shook his head, to chase those thoughts from his mind. “I want a complete profile of that Charlie Trepford,” he said. “And I also want a profile on our current killer based on the two recent killings.” He rose to his feet again. “Time to pay Dr Llewellyn a visit,” he announced.

Miles had to hurry to keep up with his boss as he was striding along the corridor. “Wait up, will you?” He grumbled.  
Chandler glanced over his shoulder and slowed down. “Sorry,” he muttered.  
“It's alright, that profiler guy got under your skin good and proper, didn't he?” Miles only half teased.  
“No. Well, not Dr Hill as such. But the news he brought did,” Chandler admitted.  
“Yeah, alright. I didn't see that coming either,” Miles said. “What on earth are we dealing with then? Another copycat thing? Or something worse?”  
“Like what?” Chandler huffed. “A murderer who came back from the grave to finish his killing spree? Despite of what happened at the team building event, I don't believe in the zombie apocalypse!”  
“Didn't say I did,” Miles muttered but then snapped his mouth shut as they reached the morgue. Dr Llewellyn and her assistant were not quite done with the autopsy, so they had to remain behind glass. Chandler was secretly glad about that. At least he was spared the worst of the smells which came with death. Even through the glass, the sight was grizzly: The girl's chest had been completely opened, her ribcage pulled apart, her skin peeled back. A precise y-cut had opened up her abdomen and Igor was currently removing the stomach. He held the organ in both hands and placed it in a metal dish. Chandler wrinkled his nose but did not avert his eyes. “What can you tell me so far?” He asked.  
Dr Llewellyn looked up and reached for another, rather large metal pan. She came around the slab and held it up so that Miles and Chandler were able to see the contents.  
“What kind of bird is that?” Chandler asked.  
“We're not sure yet,” Dr Llewellyn admitted. “But it's a chick of some kind. Maybe a freshly hatched pheasant.”  
“First a bunch of bees and now a pheasant. There really are some crackpots out there,” Miles muttered.  
“Anything else?”  
“Well, there's a wound that suggests that she was stabbed in the heart with a thin, long blade. Without the heart it's difficult to confirm it but if we take into account the angle with which the blade entered her flesh, I guess it's safe to say that she died almost instantly. Apart from the mud of the dump site, we found nothing on her body. No fibres, no fingerprints, nothing at all.  
I detected some slight abrasions of the skin, on her thighs, her upper back and her cheek. They are all post-mortem and must've occurred when the killer scrubbed her clean. The first layer of the epidermis has been affected. There are tiny cut wounds where her hair has been removed, also post-mortem. I'm running some tests to see if we can identify any of the chemicals, she was cleaned with but after all the time in the rain, I wouldn't put my hopes up.”  
“Damn it, the guy is really very thorough,” Chandler cursed.  
“I wouldn't be surprised if our killer was obsessed with cleanliness in general. He could even suffer from a compulsion of washing excessively,” Dr Llewellyn remarked.  
Miles glanced up at his boss, but Chandler's face had gone blank. Well, at least he hadn't been the one to present this theory to mister OCD.  
“I'll sent the report up as soon as I'm done.”

When they returned to the incident room, they found Dr Hill in front of two new whiteboards. He had placed them carelessly in the middle of the room. It made Chandler uneasy just to look at them. He always took great care to have the boards aligned with the walls, either in a parallel line or at an right angle. What was worse, was that Dr Hill seemed to be of a messy deposition, at least judging by the criss-crossing of lines, the crossed-out words and encircled phrases which filled one board. The other wasn't much better but at least is contained some sort of order. Dr Hill had created a timeline of the three-year-old case, using the old crime scene photographs and pictures of the girls before they there killed. Four young women, who, at first glance, could have been sisters. They had the same build, the same shape of the face, same hair colour.  
Susie McKenzie had been found on the 4th of November. She had been dead for less than 10 hours.  
Lily O'Dowll had been found ten days later. The estimated time of her death was 8 hours prior.  
Margaret Smith found on 21st of November. Her death had occurred about 22 hours before.  
And finally, Joanne Davies, who had been found on the 2nd of December and who had been killed less than an hour before.  
Dr Hill had also listed the animals which had been found in the girl's chests along with photos: a large butterfly, a peacock chick, a bat and finally a grass snake.  
Chandler stared at the board for a long moment. He tried to make sense of it all, how a dead murderer could have something to do with his current case. The modus operandi was the same: abduction of the girls, death by a single stab wound to the heart, the opening of the chest, the removal of the heart and then the replacement of a small animal. The stitching up of the chest, the cleaning of the corpse and the dispositioning of the body. And yet... There had been no bees in any of the girls' chests three years ago.  
“Was Suzie McKenzie the first victim of your killer?” Chandler suddenly asked. “Or simply the first one you found?”  
Dr Hill turned around. He put his marker behind his ear and nodded thoughtfully. “You know, I've been asking myself the same thing ever since I heard about those new killings. And it's difficult to profile this killer without letting the knowledge of the previous one interfere. I mean, apart from the choice in animals the killings are identical! As is the victim type! With a copycat, you'd get slight variations; different, if similar weapons. Different motivations. Because the copycat is never truly original it is either an attempt to be better than the predecessor or an homage to him. But here...” Dr Hill threw his hands in the air. “There are no variations! It just doesn't make any sense.”

When Chandler was alone in his office, he read through the old case files. He stared at the crime scene photographs and even read the coroner's reports. If it weren't for the dates and the different names of the victims, he might as well be reading about the current killings. At last, he reached for the profiles Dr Hill had prepared:

“Looking at the victim's age range, we can conclude that the offender is between 25 and 40 years of age. The sophistication of the modus operandi suggests that he had time to develop his skills. As sociopathic behaviour, which is common to most serial killers, first manifests itself in the late teens, and if we take an average escalation rate into account, we can deduce that the offender has reached a minimum of maturity. If he is older than 30, he will take great care to appear youthful. He will dress the part, listen to the music which is popular with the age group of his victims, know about the current hypes in popular culture and will be able to blend in well with a crowd of younger people.  
The way the killings were conducted suggest that the offender is organized and at least of average intelligence. Which does not mean that he has done well at school or at university. He will most likely have a record of disorderly behaviour, skipping classes and violence directed at his classmates. He will also have exhibited difficulties in submitting to generally accepted authority. If he attended university, he is likely to have left it without obtaining a degree. Nevertheless, he is good at methodical work and able to hold down a job in which he is given a certain amount of freedom and is not subjected to direct authority. Occupations like accounting, working as a registrar etc. seem likely, provided that he has only a minimum amount of human interaction.  
The ritualized cleaning of the victim suggests that the offender wants to 'wash them clean of their sins'. The heart, which in many cultures and religious contexts, is seen as the spiritual and moral centre of the human body, is removed. The fact that none of the hearts have been found suggests that the offender keeps them as souvenirs. They will hold symbolic meaning for him. The replacement of the heart with a variety of small animals’ hints at a wish to cause a metamorphosis of the victims. In death, our offender helps them to become what they could not be in life.  
This person is extremely dangerous. He will exhibit no remorse, no empathy or regard for human life. He sees is own life as no more valuable as that of the people around him. When cornered, he will try to inflict as much damage on his captures as possible and when given no other option, is likely to commit suicide.”

Chandler reorganised the pages of the report, put them back into the folder and closed it. He stared ahead, exhaling heavily. He rose and went back to the incident room. Where he printed out a photograph of Charlie Trepford and pinned to a whiteboard. He wrote his name down above it and the words: killer, dead beneath it. He followed it up with a detailed description of the man.  
“Alright, everybody,” he addressed his team. “Miles has informed you about the development in the case. I want you to go back over everything we have on file for Tracy Edmonds. Look for someone she knew or someone who could have come into contact with her who fits the description of Charlie Trepford. Someone is recreating his crimes and yet there seems to be something else going on than a simple copycat. Our killer will fit the profile Dr Hill provided, so he might just fit the physical the description as well. It's a long shot but it's the only clue with have so far, so start looking for similarities. Not necessarily in looks but in behaviour.”

Kent chose the moment to rush into the office. When he realized he had interrupted Chandler's speech, he stopped dead in his tracks. “Sorry, Sir.”  
Chandler smiled. “It's okay, I was about done anyway. What have you found out?”  
“Mister A'Tan has a tendency to become involved in police matters,” Kent said as he pulled out his notepad from a pocket in his jacket. “I still have to do a thorough check but the people on the switch board are more than familiar with him. I spoke to the supervisor of the team and she said that Mr A'Tan calls 911 at least once a week. He seems to be watching his neighbourhood intently, reporting everything from a car parked on the wrong side of the road, to noise pollution to pub fights. He has been a witness to at least 10 cases of assault, attempted murder and burglary in the last year alone.”  
Chandler wrinkled his nose. “Sound like the man is a right pain in the neck.”  
“Oh, he's more than that, Sir,” Kent went on. “He is creepy as hell. He made me think of this woman who was a Buchan's book launch.”  
“Louise Iver?”  
Kent nodded. “I know it sounds mad, they don't look alike or anything. It's just... there's something creepy about them, something... unnatural.”  
“I think I know what you mean, Kent,” Chandler forced a smile. “Go on.”  
“He moved to London fairly recently. In January 2011.”  
Chandler sucked in a breath. The wheels in his head were suddenly turning with a wide range of possibilities. “Do you happen to know where he lived before?”  
“Yes,” Kent flipped through the pages of his notepad. “Here. He lived in Bradfield before.”  
“Thank you, Kent. This has been most helpful.”  
Kent beamed and went to his desk.  
Riley put the receiver down and called out to him. “Boss, we have a match.”  
All eyes turned towards her. “Our recent victim fits the description of Annie Potter. Her boyfriend reported her missing three days ago.”  
Chandler walked to the whiteboard, erased the name 'Lenore' and replaced it with 'Annie Potter'. “Okay, I want as many details about Annie as possible. Where was she three days ago? Who met her, spoke to her, saw her? Are there any similarities between the last days of Tracy Edmonds? Same locations, same people? Try to find CCTV footage which helps us trace Annie's last movements.”

When Miles opened the door to get some coffees and sandwiches from the canteen, he nearly bumped into a blond woman, about half a head taller than him. He flashed her an apologetic smile. “What can I do for you?”  
She returned the smile. “DI Chandler?”  
Miles laughed. “God, no. I'm DS Miles. You're looking for the tall guy in the expensive suit over there.” He pointed at his boss, who was pacing the room, every now and then stopping to stare at the whiteboards.  
“Thanks.”  
When she tried to push past him, Miles put a hand on her shoulder. “And you are?”  
“Oh, sorry. Carol Jordan. DCI Jordan,” she reached for her badge and held it up for Miles to see.  
Miles removed his hand. “No offence meant, Ma’am.”  
Carol smiled at him. “None taken.”  
“I'm going down to the canteen. Can I get something for you?”  
“No, thanks.” Carol watched the sergeant go and entered the incident room. “DI Chandler?” The tall man turned around and faced her, an irritated look on his face. “I'm DCI Carol Jordan,” Carol held out her hand. After a moment of hesitation, Chandler shook it. His handshake was pleasant, firm but not so hard as to squeeze her fingers. “I'm with the Kensington and Chelsea division. I think we have found something which will interest you.”  
Chandler led her into his office. Once more he closed the door and drew the blinds. It was only past midday and yet the day seemed to have gone on forever. One more surprise surely couldn't shake him.  
“What brings you here?” Chandler asked, well aware of the fact that the woman in front of him outranked him.  
DCI Jordan produced a file from her rather large handbag. She handed it to Chandler. “Workman discovered a mummified body in a house not far from Sloane Square. They were charged with demolishing it after the house had stood empty for a while and had fallen into disrepair. The body turned out to be that of young white female, between 18 and 25. Course of death seems to have been a single stab wound to the heart, then her chest had been opened, the heart cut out and replaced. Then she was stitched up.”  
Chandler felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise as something like excitement made his skin tingle. “Let me guess: She has been scrupulously cleaned.”  
The DCI nodded.  
“Has her body hair been removed?”  
“No. But you'll find what we found in her chest most interesting.”  
“Bees and a honeycomb?”  
“Yes,” Jordan leaned forward. “It's a strange case you got yourself there. The body we found has been in the cellar for at least three years. She had died less than 48 hours before she was placed there. And yet...”  
“And yet...” Chandler continued. “Everything fit the pattern of the killings we are investigating at the moment. And that of four murders which had been committed three years ago in Bradfield.”  
Jordan arched an eyebrow. “You know about that already?”  
Chandler nodded. “It was brought to my attention this morning.”  
“Then you know that the only suspect died at his own hand when the officers tried to arrest him. What do you make of it?”  
“At first we thought it might be a copycat, but it doesn't really fit. The killings are too similar. Maybe,” Chandler mused as sudden inspiration hit him. “Maybe Charlie Trepford had an accomplice, someone who knew everything about his crimes. Someone, who for whatever reason, has now decided that he has to recreate Charlie's legacy.”  
“Maybe,” Jordan agreed with a small smile. “It's as good a theory as any. And frankly, we couldn't make heads or tails of it.”  
“I'd appreciate your input,” Chandler returned the smile. “I'll arrange for you to have access to all our files.”  
“Thank you, DI Chandler,” Jordan rose. “I've already done the same for you. We don't have much as of yet, but I'll keep you in the loop of any new developments.”  
Chandler led her back into the incident room. He pointed out an empty desk. “Make yourself at home.”  
Jordan was about to say something but was cut short by a cry of alarm behind her, followed by the sound of an object hitting the floor and a string of curses. When they turned, they saw Dr Hill standing by the door, a look of utter shock on his face. He had paled considerably and looked ready to faint. The plastic cup he had dropped had spilled coffee everywhere. With a sigh, Kent grabbed a roll of kitchen wipes and started to mop up the mess.  
“Carol,” was the only thing Dr Hill managed to say. Chandler frowned. What was going on? The man sounded as if he'd just seen a ghost.  
“Tony,” Jordan exclaimed. “What on earth are you doing here?”  
“Funny,” the profiler returned, a note of bitterness in his voice. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”  
Jordan hung her head and sighed. She looked up at Chandler. Her expression seemed to say: don't ask. “If you excuse me for a moment, I'll explain later.”  
Chandler shrugged his shoulders and watched her cross the room. She grabbed Dr Hill by the elbow and manoeuvred him out of the room.  
“Jeez, what was that?” Miles asked. He handed Chandler a cup. “Green tea, boss.”  
“Thanks,” Chandler automatically replied. He stared at the closed door for a second, then shrugged his shoulders again. “Lover's spurned?”  
“Those two?” Miles shook his head. “The beauty and the geek, or what?”

Tony didn't protest as Carol guided him out of the incident room and down the corridor. Truth be told, he was too dazed to think straight. It had been such a long time... Seven years ago Carol had disappeared from his life and nothing and no-one had been able to fill the void her absence had created. He had hoped against hope to one day meet her again, to receive a note from her for so long but lately he had forced himself to bury that hope. He had not moved on, not exactly. He didn't know how or where to, but he had tried to be realistic. Seven years of silence had to mean something. And now, there she was, right by his side, rushing him past busy policemen. His head was spinning, and he felt short of breath. Once outside, the cold November air which hit his face, calmed him down a little.  
“Tony, I'm sorry,” Carol began.  
“Oh really?” He suddenly felt so very angry and he did not bother to hide the fact.  
Carol sighed. “Yes, really. I didn't know you were involved in his investigation.”  
Tony laughed. It sounded harsh and hysterical even to his own ears. “You'd never planned to contact me again, right? This is just a coincidence, a little inconvenience for you. Do you have any idea what you did to me when you left like that? Do you?” He was shouting, and he didn't care that passers-by were throwing him funny looks.  
Carol slapped him. Not hard enough to really hurt but enough to shut him up. “I had no choice, Tony. It's complicated and I can't tell you anything about why I had to leave. It had nothing to do with you. I could not contact you. It would have put your safety at jeopardy. Don't ask any questions, Tony. Please! I... I can't answer them. I'm not allowed to answer them. But I don't want to lie to you, Tony. I know I hurt you and I'm really, really sorry about it.”  
Tony squeezed his eyes shut and fought the tears which were burning in them. “That's it?” He asked in a toneless whisper. “And now you expect me to forgive you and to act like nothing ever happened?”  
“No,” Carol placed a hand on his shoulder. “No, I don't expect that. I know that too much has happened since we last saw each other. For now, let's just work together. We're are professionals, you and me. We were both much better at our jobs than at having a private life.” She squeezed his shoulder once and left him there, standing in the middle of the pavement, staring after her.

Buchan knocked at the door to Joe's office. Without waiting for an answer, he stuck his head in and asked: “Do you have a moment? I think I found something.”  
Chandler motioned for him to come in and Buchan sat down. He presented Chandler with a thin file, which contained several printouts and photocopies.  
“It's difficult to find references to historic murders where a body part of the victim was replaced by an animal,” Buchan began. “But then I thought I'd look into the mythological aspect of it. The symbolism of animals if you like.” When Chandler didn't reply, Buchan went on: “First of all, the bee was in many cultures believed to be a sacred insect that bridged the natural world to the underworld. The Merovingians used it in their coat of arms, as it symbolized immortality and resurrection. The butterfly as a totem animal or spirit guide represents transformation, spiritual metamorphosis, and rebirth. In Egypt, the Peacock is associated with the Sun God Ra. In Christianity, it symbolises death and resurrection. As a totem animal it stands for rising out of the ashes and immortality. If a bat appears in your dreams, it can be a symbol of rebirth. Rebirth or renewal is a motif connected with snakes. They have the ability to shed their old skin. The casting off this skin metaphorically represents the release of old ways of thinking. The fresh new skin found underneath is rebirth and new beginnings. Purification. See the pattern yet?”  
“All the animals we have found in the chest of the dead women are symbols of life, death and rebirth,” Chandler summarized. Buchan nodded, looking pleased. “So... our killer thinks he is forcing their transformation, their rebirth as purified beings. This is interesting. I'll discuss it with Dr Hill.”

Chandelier found Dr Hill in the canteen, sipping tea and staring into space. “May I join you?”  
Dr Hill looked up. He blinked and shook his head like he had just awoken from a strange dream. “Yes, of course.” he ran a hand over his face but couldn't hide the fact that his eyes were puffy and slightly red-rimmed.  
“Did the man just cry?” Chandler thought. The idea made him uncomfortable. He never knew how he was supposed to deal with a situation like that. “Are you alright, Dr Hill?”  
Tony grimaced. Chandler guessed it was an attempt to smile. “Well, yes. More or less, at least. Ghosts of the past,” Tony said mysteriously. “They have a habit of catching up with us, DI Chandler. And usually at the most inconvenient times.”  
Chandler studied the man in silence for a moment. “Is there a problem between you and DCI Jordan?”  
Tony laughed. “There is but it doesn't concern you or the investigation. We will work together just fine. We always did.”  
When Chandler threw him a quizzical look, Tony went on: “I used to work a lot for Bradfield police. Especially between 2002 and 2008. Carol... DCI Jordan was the head of the MIT until 2006, after which her position was taken up by DI Alex Fielding. They consulted me on a number of cases. I still get called in by members from their former team from time to time, especially by DI Kevin Geoffries and DS Paula McIntyre.”  
“So, DCI Jordan was not involved in the Charlie Trepford case, despite of it happing on her old patch?"  
“No,” Tony shook his head. “No, she wasn't involved then. I don't know if she was even in the UK at the time.” He did not flinch from Chandler's quizzical glare. “Look, all you have to know is that Carol and I were close once. As friends and that something happened that changed it. It was a huge surprise to see her again, I admit that, but I won't let it cloud my professional judgement.” He laughed a short, harsh laugh. “I've worked under worst conditions. Like having been diagnosed with a brain tumour.” He held up his hand to silence Chandler. “No need to say you're sorry. The cancer went into remission, my doctors believe me to be cured.” He managed a small smile. “What is it you wanted to talk about?”  
Chandler presented him with Buchan's file and told the doctor everything Buchan had told him.  
Tony's expression changed the more he listened: from defeated and tired to energized and full of ideas. “That's a most interesting theory,” he said when Chandler was done talking. “I can't believe I did not see it myself. But it makes perfect sense. In a warped, psychopathic sort of way. Who did you say, this Mr Buchan was?”  
Chandler squirmed visible. “He's an adviser of sorts, unofficially speaking. On the record he is in charge of the Whitechapel Police Archive. He got involved in my first case as DI, which happened to be a Jack the Ripper cop cat. Buchan thought he had valuable insight, being a Ripperologist. He had published a book on the subject and led very popular tours through the East End.”  
“Indeed?” Ton mused. “That's unconventional.” He smiled. “You know, you and I should get along just fine. I'm king of unconventional.” he held out his hand. “I'm Tony.”  
Chandler shook the offered hand, more out of surprise than desire to strike up a friendship. “Call me Joe.”

Tony stuck his head through an open door at the end of a narrow underground corridor. What he saw took him by surprise. Sure, Joe had told him about Buchan's obsession with files on historic crime but still he had not anticipated this: a labyrinthine library; shelves full to bursting with labelled cardboard boxes, leather-bound books, and thick manila envelopes. He stood watching an elderly man in a dress shirt and slip-over bustle about. He knocked on one of the shelves and called out. “Edward Buchan?”  
The man turned on his heel and faced Tony. He looked a little flustered which made him look quite comical, as his reading glasses had slid down to the very tip of his nose.  
“Who dares to venture down into my den of crime?”  
Tony chuckled. “Tony Hill. I'm the clinical psychologist involved with the investigation. DI Chandler sent me down here.”  
“Ah, so you are here because of the animal symbolism?”  
“Yes, I am. How did you come cross the significance? I can't believe I didn't see this pattern myself!”  
“Well,” Buchan puffed out his chest. “It's what I do. I comb through the files in my archive and try to provide relevant precedence.” He walked up to Tony and held out his hand. “Edward Buchan, at your service.”  
Tony shook it with some enthusiasm. These promised to be more enjoyable than he'd thought.  
Buchan and Tony spent the next two hours drinking cup after cup of tea and pouring over books, documents and internet sites devoted to the role of animals in mythology and the symbolism in different religions through the ages. When he left the cellar, Tony's head was buzzing with countless theories and possible implications for the cases.

Back at the incident room, Tony headed straight to Carol's desk. Doing so felt so familiar and yet everything was different. He still felt betrayed and the easy trust between them which had needed no words, was gone. Nevertheless, he was glad that she was back in his life, for how ever brief a moment. “You must be some sort of masochist, Tony. You let her hurt you and you come back for more, eager as a puppy dog.”  
“Did you find any DNA on your mummified body?” He asked.  
Carol looked up from the files she's been reading and regarded Tony for a long moment. “The coroner's report wasn't back when I got here. But it seems unlikely. Why do you ask?”  
“I've had an idea,” Tony said. He tapped his lips with his index fingers, frowned, turned on his heel and walked away. Carol stared after him but couldn't help but smile to herself. “Oh Tony,” she whispered. “Some things never change.”

When Tony came in the next morning, Chandler and the rest of the team were already there. And so was Carol. Tony stifled a yawn and hoped he looked half-way decent in yesterday's suit. At least he had remembered to change his shirt and to take a shower. Well, the other way around, but anyway. He'd been up most of the night, going through the files, both old and new, again and again. There was something in them he had missed, something which would provide a vital clue. He stopped in the middle of the incident room. “Of course!” He smacked himself on the head and rushed over to Riley's desk. “Do you have a copy of the file from three years ago?”  
Riley threw him an irritated look but decided to humour him. “Yes, of course. What are you looking for?”  
“The description of the murder weapon, from the day Charlie Trepford was arrested. What does the report say about fingerprints?”  
Riley skipped through the pages until she had found the relevant chapter. “There. I found it.” She handed the file to Tony, who practically ripped it out of her hands and began to read aloud: “Craving knife, blade 14 cm in length, not very flexible. Blah, blah, blah... Apart from the suspect's fingerprints, another set of fingerprints was found, both on the handle and the blade of the knife but could not be identified.”  
Tony marched into Chandler's office and barged in without knocking. Chandler didn't seem to be very pleased about this and immediately reached for the tiny jar of Tiger Balm.  
“A policeman with an obsessive-compulsive disorder?” Tony mused briefly and then let the file he was holding fall onto Chandler's desk.  
“There were two sets of fingerprints on the murder weapon. One belonged to Charlie Treford, the other has not been identified. It's possible there were two people involved in this. It didn't appear like that three years ago, that's why nobody, including myself, looked for another perpetrator. Besides, Trepford had been caught in the act, red-handed. He died, and the murders stopped so there was no need to look any further. Until now.”  
Chandler stared at the file and then at Tony. “Are you suggesting that Charlie Trepford had a helper? An accomplice? One who lay low for three years after his partner committed suicide?”  
“Basically, yes. My guess is that it was someone who was extremely close to Charlie. Like a brother. We need to find out more about his background, his family, his childhood. I remember it was difficult as hell finding any information about him. It was like he had appeared out of thin air once he was 17, when he started an apprenticeship as a car mechanic. His former boss remembered him, because he was a sullen kid, silent like an oyster and intensely miserable. He quit before he'd finished his first year. Then he went from odd job to odd job: cashier at a gas station, call centre agent, pizza delivery service, that sort of thing. He ended up as a night porter in a little B&B on the out fringes of Temple Fields. Mostly he just had to check the monitors, get the paperwork ready for the day shift and keep the books. Colleagues said he was withdrawn but friendly. Never attended the annual Christmas party or the like. We never managed to track down his parents and when he killed himself, nobody saw the need to tie up loose ends, so his past remained unchecked.”  
“So, we have to track that down,” Chandler suggested. “See if anything sheds some light on the current killings. I'll coordinate this this DCI Jordan.”  
“I know just the one for the job,” Carol said after Chandelier had finished briefing her.  
“Stacy?” Tony suggested.  
Carol threw him a look and a smile, then shook her head. “No, she's with the Home Office now, catching some really big fish. But the person I have in mind is almost as good. Plus, she's on my current team and dying to be part of something more exciting than armed robbery and domestics.”  
Riley waved from her desk. She had just put the receiver down and looked very pleased with what she had learned. “Boss, I've got something.”  
They all marched to her desk. Miles perched down on the edge, while the others stood around the desk in a half circle. “What is it?” Chandler asked, a tat nervously.  
“DCI Jordan's team shared the coroner's report with us this morning. It included detailed dental records. Enough for a comparison.”  
“Comparison with whom?” Miles asked.  
Riley grinned. “I'll get to that in a moment. I checked the missing person's reports from three years ago, to see if there was a girl which fitted the pattern. I drew a blank in the greater London area, so I checked in Bradfield. Again nothing. But when I broadened the search to nationwide, I got a few hits. Three girls, aged, 19, 22 and 25. All tall and with long brown hair. To cut a long story short, I got their dentists to send me their records and bingo! The girl from the cellar is Lucy McBride, who went missing in October 2011. She was from Coventry and lived with her parents after she's broken up with her girlfriend earlier that year.”  
“That was excellent work,” Chandler couldn't keep the pride out of his voice. And a hint of relive. He felt under special scrutiny having the DCI and Dr Hill around.  
“I guess that means I'll have to tell the parents in person. Do they still live in Coventry?” Carol signed. She hated that part of the job. Always had. Talking to the bereaved brought the emotional impact a murder had for those closest to the victim home to her. The ever-widening ripples of shock, denial, anger, hurt and grief. The way one single act of cruelty had the potential to destroy more than the life it had taken.  
Riley nodded. “Yes. Well, the mother does. Lucy's dad died last year.”  
“Poor woman,” Carol muttered. “Anyone up to a trip to Coventry?”  
Miles put up his hand. “Yeah, why not.”  
Carol beamed at him. “Okay. Ready to go when you are, sergeant.”

An hour after Carol and Miles had gone, Mansell knocked at Chandler's office door. When he came in, he barely managed to stifle a yawn. Chandler frowned. What had the constable been up to that made him look like he hadn't slept in three days? He hoped it was not another fall out with Erika which had led to a confrontation between him and Kent.  
“Sorry Sir,” Mansell smiled sheepishly after another yawn. “I spent most of the night looking at CCTV tapes. Don't know if it means anything, but both Tracy and Anne stopped at a gas station which is open 24X7 the night before they were reported missing. The one on Old Street. I'm meeting the manager in an hour. He has promised to give me a full list of his employees, complete with timetables and contact details.”  
“Excellent,” Chandler smiled. “Looks like we're making progress.”  
Mansell was almost out of the door, when Chandler called after him: “And Mansell? After you've completed the interview and filed your report, I want you to go home. Catch some sleep. We need you alert and not dead on your feet.”  
Mansell grinned. “Yes, Sir!”

“Is this where I can find DCI Carol Jordan?” A young woman asked. Kent looked up from his paperwork and frowned slightly. “In theory yes, but she's gone for now. I guess she will be back later this evening. Who are you?”  
“Oh, right.” The young woman pulled a badge out of the pocket of her rather skinny jeans and grinned. “DC Charlotte Patterson. But please call me Charlie, everybody does.”  
Kent shook her outstretched hand and smiled back. “Nice to meet you. I'm DC Kent. Emerson Kent. You'd want to talk to my boss, DI Chandler. He's over there.” Kent pointed in the direction of the whiteboard.  
“Emerson,” Charlie grinned. “What kind of name is this? It's kind of cute though. Like you.”  
She turned on her heels and walked away. After a few yards, she looked over her shoulder and waved. Kent stared back at her, absolutely gob-smacked. Had this tomboy of a constable just flirted with him? He shook his head, bewildered. Okay, she was not bad looking, in that cheeky boyish sort of way but she was not his type.  
“DI Chandler?”  
He turned around, slightly startled. “Yes?”  
“I'm DC Patterson,” Charlie introduced herself. “DCI Jordan requested me. I take it you've been informed?”  
Chandler scanned the young woman in front of him thoroughly. Short cut, slightly curly copper hair, sparkling bright blue eyes, a tiny nose, a sprinkle of freckles on the cheeks. Slim build but wiry. About as tall as Miles but easily a good 40 years younger. Dressed causally in straight cut jeans, a faded Johnny Cash T-Shirt and a vintage 50's zipped black leather jacket.  
“Yes,” Chandler managed to say. “Yes, of course. You're the cyberspace maverick?”  
Charlie laughed. “Did she say I was?” She shook her head, both amused and embarrassed. “Well, I'm pretty good with computers, so I guess so.”  
Chandler extended his hand and Charlie shook it eagerly. “Good to have you on board, DC Patterson. There's an empty desk by the window, which you can use. DI Riley will brief you. Get settled in and then let me know what equipment you need. I'll pull some strings so that you get whatever it is asap.”  
Charlie grinned. “Thank you. That sounds like a plan. I better get going then.”

The drive to Coventry had taken them twice as long as it should have. There had been an accident on the M1 to Warwickshire, which had resulted in a roadblock and two nerve-wrecking hours of stop-and-go. Despite of it, the drive had been pleasant enough. Carol and Miles had struck up an easy conversation, based on small talk and the case. Carol liked the crabby sergeant. He was clearly old-school but not dumb or narrow-minded. Loyal to a fault as well, judging by the way he talked about his fast-tracked DCI. He wouldn't say so in so many words, but Carol got the impression that DS Miles cared a great deal about his boss. About the man, and not just the detective. When they finally reached the outskirts of Coventry, midday had come and gone. Carol was dying for a chance to stretch her legs. To distract herself, she asked: “Have you worked with a profiler before?”  
Miles snorted and shot her a sideways glance. “Yeah, I have. Years and years ago. On a case of teenage abductions. It was some toff, fresh off university, with lots of shiny theories in his head and little knowledge of the big, bad world out there.” He fell silent for a moment, then added: “We got more of a result from a local medium than from him.”  
Now it was Carol's turn to throw Miles a quizzical look. “Did you really?” She laughed. “Never done this myself, but believe me, Dr Hill's insights and hunches sometimes feel like they've been communicated from the other side.”  
Miles harrumphed. “I can believe that. He's an odd bloke, to say the least.”  
“That he is, there's no denying it. And yet, he's really helpful. I worked with him close to a dozen of times and he always picked up on something which would've been lost in the static of a usual investigation. His brain is wired differently to most people's, I guess. He sees patterns where others see only chaos.”  
“So, he's not just a nut-case wasting our time and money?” Miles grumbled.  
Carol laughed heartily. “No. I know he doesn't come across like a serious professional, but he is. He helped save quite a few lives over the years.”  
“Well, alright. I'll give him half a chance,” Miles offered. “Didn't believe at first that my boss was capable of more than paperwork and looking good on the news, but he proved me wrong. He's a fine copper. He's got gut instinct and vision and he's not afraid to go against the odds. And he saved my life.”  
When he was asked, he told DCI Jordan all about the Ripper case and the fact that Dr Cohen had stabbed him in the liver before he made his escape. He also told her that Chandler had chosen to stay with him, kneeling by his side, pressing his hands against the viscous wound in his sergeant's side until the ambulance had arrived. The doctors later told him that it had possibly saved his life. Had Chandler left him lying there, the wound left to bleed freely, to catch the Ripper, Miles would have lost too much blood. It still sent shivers down his spine to think about it, how close he had come to death. And it still stirred up the old anger in his belly to remember what a shit storm they as a team and especially their DI had had to face in the aftermath.  
“The papers called him “The policeman who failed to catch The Ripper,” Miles concluded, his voice thick with disgust. “Like he did so deliberately. He made a choice. And he chose my life over a result and some glory. They still won't let him forget it.”  
“They?” Carol prompted.  
“Yeah, you know. People in high places. Like Commander Anderson.”

Tony had hardly realized that Carol and Miles had gone. He was staring at the whiteboard so hard as if he was trying to will it to reveal the answer which so far eluded him. He walked back and forth, from one board to the next, staring at crime scene photographs from three years ago, then at the recent ones. Something nagged at him from the depths of his subconscious mind, but he couldn't put his finger on what it was. He closed his eyes, hung his head, forced a few deep breaths to clear his head and took a step backwards. He startled when he ran into someone. His eyes flew open, and he spun around, looking up sheepishly at DI Chandler, who frowned slightly. “I'm sorry,” Tony offered. “I keep forgetting about the real world sometimes when I'm trying to figure out a case.”  
Chandler straightened his tie and smiled. “It's quite alright, no harm done. How exactly are you trying to figure out this case, if you don't mind me asking?”  
Tony grimaced and ran a hand through his thinning hair, making it stand on end. “It's more of a serious science than I make it look like.” He grinned. “As a clinical psychologist, I deal with severely disturbed people on a daily basis. As such I'm trained to recognize the various patterns of mental illness, which cause erratic behaviour. You know, are they psychotic? Depressed? Manic? Schizophrenic? Do they really hear voices or are they just making them up because it's convenient? Are they cool-blooded sociopaths or even psychopaths? Knowing if your killer on the lose is likely to suffer from one mental illness or another can help to predict his actions and behaviour to a degree.” When Chandler nodded, Tony went on:  
“In addition to that, I try find out what makes my patients, or in this line of work, the killers tick. Try to get into their heads, see the world with their eyes, if you like. However bizarre the killings might seem to us, to them they make perfect sense. There is a pattern there. An underlying motivation. A reason why they do what they do. I have a knack for finding the pattern.” He smiled a loop-sided smile.  
“Isn't that a scary thing to do? To try to slip into their minds?” Chandler mused. “I mean, I've seen some gruesome stuff as a DI but it's usually the faces of the victims which haunt me. How do you deal with it, getting so close to the killer? Emotionally, I mean?”  
Tony's eyes widened. “Good question,” he admitted. He drew the words out to buy himself some time to think. Eventually he said: “It's scary, yes. It's about acknowledging the dark parts in myself. The abyss which allows me to think like them. Feel like them, sometimes.” He exhaled sharply. “It makes me wonder sometimes. About myself. But it also makes me pretty good at what I'm doing.”  
Chandler visibly shuddered. His hands twitched slightly. Yearning to reach for the small jar of Tiger Balm on his desk, no doubt. He managed a smile.  
“Then I'm glad we have you on our side of the crime scene tape, Dr..., Tony.”  
He turned to go, when Tony smacked a flat palm against his forehead and laughed. “Of course,”  
“What is it?” Chandler demanded but Tony only waved a hand through the air, telling him to stop talking. He marched back to the whiteboards, erased some of what he'd previously written down with a sponge and grabbed a black marker. When he was done writing, he turned around again, facing Chandler with a triumphant look on his face.  
“Two sets of fingerprints, the same murder weapon, the same modus operandi but slight variations in the actual afflicting of the deadly wound three years ago. The same kind of killings, same victim type, a similar murder weapon right now. The same but different! That's the pattern. Or at least one of them. The same but different. I should have seen this before.”  
“Tony,” Chandler's voice had a pleading ring to it. “What are you talking about?”  
Tony looked at the whiteboard, then at Chandler. He sighed. “Right. Sorry. I got carried away. I think we have ruled out a copycat, haven't we?”  
Chandler nodded. “Yes, mainly because the latest killings show details which have never been released to the press.”  
“Exactly. So, the only way our current killer is able to do what he's doing now, is because he was around three years ago. We know that the killer was caught and that he died in police custody. That leaves only one explanation: there were two killers on the lose three years ago, one who was caught and one who wasn't.”  
Chandler shook his head. “I've checked and double checked the old case files. There was never a second person around when Charlie Trepford was caught on CCTV. No evidence of an accomplice.”  
“Apart from the unexplained set of fingerprints on the murder weapon,” Tony pointed out.  
Chandler cringed but nodded. “The same but different,” Tony said again. “What if there were two killers, but they never were at the same location at the same time? What if you wouldn't know if you were looking at killer number one or number two?”  
Chandler stared at Tony in confusion but then his face lit up. “You mean because both killers looked alike? So much so that you wouldn't be able to tell them apart? Like twins?”  
Tony punched the air. “That's it. The same but different. Identical twins share the same DNA but their fingerprints are not identical. Which would explain the unidentified set of prints on the murder weapon. There are also differences in how the wound was inflicted, as if the killer alternated between holding the knife in his left or right hand when he stabbed them. There is a fairly rare condition amongst identical twins, called Mirror image twins. It occurs when a fertilized egg splits later in the embryonic stage than normal. This type of twinning can exhibit characteristics with reversed asymmetry, such as opposite dominant handedness.”  
Chandler nodded. “That makes sense. But how come we didn't know Charlie Trepford had a twin?”  
Tony frowned. “That's something you'll have to find out, while I try to figure out why the second twin has remained virtually invisible for three years. You'd imagine that the sight of a dead serial killer would have caused quite a stir and would have been reported by the public or the press.”

The woman who opened the door to the small semi-detached house in a quiet street in a suburb of Coventry which screamed 'middle-class', was unmistakeably Lucy McBride's mother. Carol could see her daughter's features in the care-worn face which had aged before its time. Deep lines had etched themselves into the skin around her eyes, had turned the corners of her mouth down. Like the house she lived in, Frances McBride had a look of faded prosperity and slight neglect about her. Her hair had haphazard been tied into a lose ponytail; it looked dull as if she had forgotten to wash it for weeks. Her clothes were clean and neat but frayed and faded. Carol had seen this type of behaviour more often than she cared for and judging by the look on his face, so had DS Miles. Frances McBride’s life had ended on the day she had reported her daughter missing. It had been on hold ever since.  
“You are the police?” The woman asked. Her voice was low and tremulous. She barely glanced at the batches Miles and Carol held up for her inspection. She ushered them in, down a narrow hallway, into a crammed but tidy living-room. The first thing Carol noticed were the countless photographs of Lucy which adorned the walls, stood on sideboards, coffee tables, the mantelpiece of the fake fireplace and every other available surface. The face of a lively girl aged between 14 and 21 stared at her from all directions. It made Carol even more uncomfortable. It also made her wonder what Tony would've made of this display. Was Mrs McBride desperately clinging to the fading hope that her girl would one day show up alive or was it a mausoleum? A shrine to a dead girl, a mere memory?  
“Have you found her?” Mrs McBride asked as soon as Miles and Carol had taken their seats on a sagging beige leather sofa. She remained standing; hands intertwined. Before Carol could answer, she continued: “She...she'd dead, isn't she? My Lucy is dead.”  
Carol nodded. “I'm very sorry, Mrs McBride. But yes, your daughter is dead. We have only recently discovered her body.”  
Mrs McBride closed her eyes. Tears spilled out from underneath her eyelids and ran down her pale cheek. She made no other sound apart from the ragged gasps for breath. After a moment, Miles got up. He placed an arm around Mrs McBride's shoulder and led her to an armchair. When she had sat down, he threw a quick look at Carol. “I'll make some tea,” he muttered and left the room. Carol heard him opening drawers in the kitchen and then the hiss of the kettle as the water began to boil. A moment later, Miles was back, carrying a steaming mug of tea. He placed it on the coffee table in front of Mrs McBride's chair and sat down.  
Mrs Mc Bride wiped at her eyes. She reached for the mug but withdrew her hand immediately. “Too hot,” she whispered. Then, with a visible effort, she pulled herself together and looked at Carol. “I knew as soon as you phoned to tell me you were coming,” she said. “They stopped calling me a long time ago.” She sounded bitter and tired. Carol guessed that the 'they' refereed to the policemen who had been investigating her daughter's disappearance three years ago.  
“How did you know it was Lucy?” The question took Carol by surprise. She was glad when Miles spoke up: “Dental records.”  
Mrs McBride put a hand over her mouth as if to stifle a sob. She nodded. “Can I see her?”  
Carol put on her best sympathetic smile. “You can, of course. But I would advise you against it. Lucy... her body has been hidden away from almost three years. It's not a pretty sight. What we found does not look like Lucy anymore.”  
Mrs McBride drew in a shaky breath, then nodded. “I see... Oh God, what did they do to my poor girl?” She cried freely for a few moments, then noisily blew her nose, squared her shoulders and looked Carol directly in the eye. “Three years, you said? Lucy has been dead for three years?”  
“Yes.” She knew which question Mrs McBride was going to ask next before she even opened her mouth again.  
“Does that mean Lucy was dead all the while your colleagues told me they were trying to find her?”  
“Yes,” Carol hated herself a little for having to say it. “It's very likely that Lucy was killed shortly after she disappeared. We believe that the person who did that to her is still out there, targeting young girls like her. In order to catch him, we need your help, Mrs McBride. Are you willing to answer some more questions?”  
Mrs McBride reached for her cup of tea. She took some sips and sighed. “What more can I tell you? I've told your colleagues everything. I've answered all their questions.”  
Miles leaned forward and put a hand on her elbow. “I know and I'm sure you did your best. But another young girl has gone missing lately and we believe the bloke who killed your daughter is behind it.”  
Mrs McBride nodded slowly. “And you think I might be able to tell you something after three years which might help that girl from dying just like Lucy?” She gave the smallest of nods. “Go ahead, ask your questions.”  
An hour and a half later, Carol and Miles were heading back in the direction of Warwickshire. This time Miles was driving. Carol nursed a tall Americano from the petrol station in her hands. She sighed. “Not much we have learned, was there?”  
Miles chuckled without much humour. “Nope. Wasn't hoping for much, to be honest. Might be worth looking into who that 'guy from the North' her mother claims her daughter was seeing. Charlie Trepford was from after all.”  
“And you mean, it doesn't get much more Northern this side of the border than Bradfield?” Carol teased.  
“Not by a long shot,” Miles grinned. He turned serious again. “Wonder why nobody bothered to looked through that box of photographs before.”  
Carol sighed. Mrs McBride had presented them with a whole box of photographs of her daughter. All had been taken during the last year before she had gone missing. “Lucy was over 18, no criminal record, no history of mental illness. She wasn't seen as a vulnerable person. No signs of abduction. Her friends didn't report anything which pointed at a crime, there wasn't a violent ex-boyfriend in the wings.”  
“I know, I know,” Miles grumbled. “Nevertheless, I'll have Kent look through it all when we get back. Never know what we might find, right?”  
“Let Dr Hill have a look as well,” Carol suggested. “If anybody can spot the forest in between the trees, it's him.”  
“Right,” Miles nodded. “Oh, by the way: there'll be a bit of a party at the Ten Bell's tonight. It's Mansell's birthday and he's invited everybody for a few rounds. Why don't you join us? You and Dr Hill?”  
Carol smiled. “I just might. Those blasted traffic jams make you long for a pint, don't they?”

“Twins?” DC Patterson asked. Born in the UK around 1979?”  
Chandler nodded. “Yes. Is there a problem?”  
Charlie shook her head. “No. No, of course not, Sir. It's just that there are about 11.800 pairs of twins born every year!”  
“We can disregard all female twins and we are only interested in identical twins, so that should narrow it down a bit,” Tony offered.  
Charlie beamed at him. “Okidoki Doc, I'll let you know when I've found something.”  
Charlie spent the next couple of hours going through birth and hospitals records. She cross-referenced her findings by checking school files, local newspaper archives and social media. Her fingertips flew over the keyboard, typed in commands at a lightning speed. She saved everything she thought might turn out to be important and felt a little bit like a kid in a sweet shop as she sneaked around places she wasn't supposed to be and read through information she was not supposed to have. That was the best part of her job, she thought. That and helping to catch some of those sick bastards who ran around Britain at every given moment, playing at being human, whereas in reality they were little more than shakes in human disguise.  
“Sir,” she called out and stretched. Stifling a yawn, she reached for her cup of coffee and grimaced. It had gone cold. Chandler walked over to her desk from the whiteboard. He'd been deep in a discussion with the profiler, who hurried to keep up with the DI's long strides.  
“Yes?”  
“Sir, I think I know why there was no record of Charles Trepford before the age of 17. He never existed.”  
“What do you mean?”  
Charlie grinned. “I mean, that he was born under a different name. Well, he and his twin brother, most likely. Charles Trepford was a kid from Liverpool, born 17.06.1978. He died in a car crash when he was 16, on 13. November 1994, which was a Friday. Whoever our killer is, he stole Charles' identity and erased all traces of his own. Or at least he did his best to do so.  
I found a pattern of strange accidents of break ins in register offices and such in and around Bradfield from around 1993-1995. Fires break out in Churches, schools, newspaper offices, hospitals. No serious harm is ever done. The fires usually only affect one or two rooms, never more than one storey. The fires did start up during the middle of the night or on days when the buildings were deserted, like during holidays. In three cases faulty equipment was thought to be the reason for the fires. In four, human error was ruled to be the cause: a cigarette butt smouldering in a dustbin, that sort of thing. Arson was only thought to be the cause in two cases, but the investigations soon stalled, and no suspect was ever questioned. The interesting thing about those fires is that they all contained papers and records from the period after 1965. Stuff which would have related to someone born in or around Bradfield in 1979.”  
“Like their school records? Birth certificates and such?” Tony asked.  
“Spot on, doc,” Charlie winked at him and glanced at her computer screen. She pressed a few keys and the image changed. “I looked at births of twins as well, like you asked me to, sir,” she said, addressing Chandler. “In the late 70s and early 80s the annual number of twin births was significantly lower than it is today. That's because more women get fertility treatment these days. So, I was looking at about 9050 twin births, minus the amount of non-identical twins, identical female twins and I was left with 1400 pairs of twins. I excluded all non-Caucasian, all which were born with severe handicaps and so on. Which left me with about 900 pairs. A few can be discounted because their parents moved away from the UK before they reached their teenage years, some because both or one twin died before the year 2000 and another few because the brothers have been in prison, or otherwise institutionalized. Within a 100-mile radius of Bradfield, which leaves us with 23 male pairs of twins. I'm currently trying to tack them all down, but it will take a while because there is so much data to go through.”  
“Keep at it,” Chandler said. “How many pairs of male twins are we looking at nationwide for 1979?”  
Charlie's answer came without hesitation: “658, sir.”  
Chandler cursed under his breath. “Run their names through our databases. Let's see if any of those twins have a criminal record.”  
“Already done,” Charlie smiled. “I'm waiting for the results to come through.”  
“Excellent, keep me informed,” Chandler went back to his office. Mansell had turned in his report an hour before. Chandler sighed as he thought that the DC was now most likely at the home of Kent's twin sister. Somehow, he thought that Mansell was not going to get much sleep before this birthday bash would start at 9 in the evening.  
Chandler took a sip from his green tea and opened the file. The manager of the petrol station had been true to his word and had provided Mansell with detailed records of his employees. Chandler leaved through copies of contracts, timetables and check in records. He only glanced at the papers of young women, men over 50 and people of a non-white ethnicity. He was left with five white males of the right age but none of them did particularly look like the killer who had not been Charlie Trepford.

When Carol and Miles had returned, there was a briefing to bring everybody up to date. The rest of the day dragged on, without any new revelations. At about half past eight, Miles rose from his desk and knocked at Chandler's door. “Come on boss, time to freshen up. It's Mansell's big day today, remember? It's the Ten Bells tonight but you needn't worry, they revamped their toilets recently. I checked. They're all clean and shiny now.”  
Chandler rubbed his face with his palm and glanced at his wristwatch. 8.33h. “Alright, but I won't stay long. One of us has to be clear headed in the morning.”  
Miles didn't bother to hide his grin. “Whatever you're saying, boss.”

When Tony and Buchan reached the Ten Bell's, the party was already in full swing. Tony had lost track of time while he had sat in Buchan's crammed archive, looking at historical files relating to twins with a criminal history. The most famous of those being the Krays of course but while their story fascinated Tony, he knew that he was dealing with something very different. The Krays had been partners, equally responsible for the success of their so-called Federation of Crime. At least up to the time Ronnie's insanity made his behaviour too erratic for even Reggie to handle. The Krays had operated in full daylight, so to speak, flaunting their achievements. They had bathed in the limelight, had thumbed their noses at the police and had enjoyed their reign of violence to the extreme. None of which applied to the pair for twins who had been responsible for the deaths of those girls three years ago. The same but different... the phrase spun around Tony's head, making it impossible for him to think. He knew that one twin must have been the dominant one, somehow forcing his brother into almost total submission. How else could it be explained that until now the police had had no idea they were even dealing with a pair of killers?  
Buchan pushed his way through the thick after shift crowd to the back of the pub. He used his umbrella like a sword, poking and nudging at people to get them to move out of his way. Tony followed in his wake. He only snapped out of his reverie when Carol called out to him.  
“Tony, over here!” He saw her wave at him. His heart leaped in his chest but at the same time it hurt so bad it momentarily took his breath away. For a second, he contemplated turning on his heel and fleeing the pub but then she smiled at him again and he was lost. He smiled back, went to the bar and got them both a glass of white wine, a crisp and cool Pinot Noir. For a while they sipped their drinks and talked about the case and about people, they've both known during their time together in Bradfield. Catching up on gossip and such was fun, but Tony found his mind wandering ever so often. A million questions burned in his brain, but he didn't know how to ask them without ending up sounding like a petulant child. Why did you leave? Why did you not call, not write, not anything? Why did you walk out of my life? Why?  
In addition to that there were so many things he wanted, no needed, to say. Things he had kept hidden inside himself for far too long. Things, never spoken, which had stood between them back then before Carol had left for South Africa and which still haunted him all those years later. But again, he didn't know how to say them, so he said nothing. Oh, he made small talk and laughed at her jokes but part of him felt like he was bleeding internally. And yet... Yet he was not able to save himself, was not able to walk away. Not more than he had been all those years ago. I need you. My life is empty without you in it. I think I love you...  
Two hours later and Tony's head was spinning. Not so much from the drinks he'd consumed -for every two glasses of wine Carol had had, he had had one – but from the noise and activity around him. Carol had been dragged away from his side to dance first with Mansell, then with Miles and now with Buchan, who was surprisingly good at the Disco fox. He spun Carol around and bowed in his exaggerated way when the song ended. Carol laughed and turned to walk away but slipped on the uneven and slippery ground. She would've fallen, had Chandler not caught her. For a second Carol hung limply in his arms, staring up at his expressionless face, then she caught herself. She found her footing and smiled her thanks at Chandler. Tony felt a sharp pain pierce his heart as he watched her take Chandler's arm.

“Do you want me to call you a taxi?” Chandler asked as he walked DCI Jordan across the room. He didn't quite know what he was supposed to do. Technically the DCI was his superior, even though they treated each other more like partners during the investigation so far. Jordan had not pulled rank and taken the case from him, for which Chandler was grateful. None of which mattered at the moment, though. Jordan was clearly drunk. And if truth be told, he wasn't entirely sober anymore as well. Miles had made sure he always had a stiff gin and tonics in front of him, while all around him pints were consumed by the dozen. Mansell had told everyone he had everything covered and so the team was letting their hair down. Buchan had sat in one corner, talking to Riley while eating his way through most of the pub food menu. Whenever Mansell wasn't singing karaoke, dancing with the barmaid or getting hammered, he stole away to the toilets for a quick snog with Erica. Miles danced with Dr Llewellyn and even Kent had been dragged to the dancefloor by the computer wizard kid. Only Chandler had been able to avoid making a fool out of himself by dancing to some corny old song. The fact that he took absurd pride in the fact showed just how drunk he was.  
“No, thank you,” Jordan smiled again. “I'm quite enjoying myself. Aren't you?”  
“Well,” Candler stopped by the bar, where Mansell was pouring drinks for everyone once more. “I'm not very good with parties and the like,” he admitted a little reluctantly.  
“Why's that?” Jordan let go of his arm and stood in front of him, looking him directly in the eyes. “You are a handsome man, surely you are aware of it, DI Chandler.”  
He felt a blush creep into his cheek and shook his head. “I wouldn't know. I mean, it's nothing I think about. I try to keep in shape and I like to dress up. But I'm not vain. My suits and ties... they are my armour.”  
“And what does it protect you from?” Jordan regarded him with a small smile on her lips, eyes sparkling.  
Chandler suddenly felt all hot and looked away. Away from the tip of her tongue which darted over her pink lips. “Life,” he muttered. “Myself. I don't know.”  
“I think you need to relax a little,” Jordan suggested. She took his arm again and dragged him closer to the bar. “Another G&T for the DI and a glass of white wine for me,” she called out to Mansell, who was only too happy to oblige. Later Carol scolded herself for not having realized what was going on. Kent, who had looked alarmed and had stood frozen to the spot, gazing up at his boss like a deer caught in the headlights, had hissed something into Mansell's ear, who had shaken his head and laughed heartily. Mansell, who had quickly hidden something in the pocket of his jeans. The glasses, which had been filled to the brim, foaming slightly even though neither white wine nor gin had any business foaming. The slightly bitter after-taste the first mouthful of Pinot had left in her mouth as she had swallowed it down. It should have been clear as crystal but at the time Carol had not been paying attention. She had wanted to escape the moody company of Tony Hill, his ever watchful and accusing eyes. Hell, she had wanted to have a bit of fun. Nothing serious, just a few drinks and a few dances. By the time the song ended, Carol had finished half of her drink. Her vision swam ever so slightly and when she looked around, everything seemed to emit a soft golden glow. She also realized with a start how attractive the DI really was. Heat rushed through her body as she stole sideways glances at him. Tall and slender, immaculately dressed, clean shaven even at this time of day, Chandler really was quite a looker. Dashing in a posh, slightly old-fashioned kind of way. A gentleman. The thought made her giggle. Oh, but the well-tailored dress shirt hid well-developed muscles and a six pack to die for. That thought made her giggle even more. She realized a little belatedly that the DI was looking at her with a quizzical expression on his face. She saw his lips move but she did not hear his words. The next song started, it was a slow one. A kitschy old ballad but for what Carol had in mind, it was perfect. She slung her arms around the DI's neck and pulled him closer. “Do you dance, DI Chandler?”  
“I...no, I mean,” he stuttered but made no move to push her away.  
Carol smiled at him, stood on tiptoe and placed a quick kiss on his cheek. “Oh, please do. I'd very much love to have this dance,” she purred.  
A shudder went through him and he nodded. His hands trembled when he placed them on her shoulders and the small of her back, but Carol didn't mind. She was used to awkward men and in comparison, to Tony, Chandler was positively outgoing. After a while, Chandler seemed to relax enough to give himself over to the music. He swayed with Carol, leading her through the dance and even managed a few steps which resembled a waltz. Next up came a noisy rock track, which made Chandler wince. Carol laughed. She took his hand and dragged him back to the bar. She found her drink and drank down what was left of her white wine. Chandler followed suit and gulped down his G&T. He shook himself like a wet dog when he was done.  
“That must've been the cheapest gin I've ever had,” he announced with a grin. “It tasted bloody awful.” His eyes met Carol's and he started to giggle. Carol joined in, not really knowing why but not caring either way. They laughed and laughed until tears were running down Carol's face. She took Chandler's arm again. “Will you walk me to my hotel, DI Chandler? It's only a short walk from here but I'd like the company.”  
Chandler blinked repeatedly but then grinned. “Gladly. Why don't you call me Joe?”  
Later he couldn't recall anything about the conversation they had shared during the short walk though Whitechapel. He remembered the rush of chill air, the relentlessly falling drizzle; drops glittering in the headlights of passing cars. He remembered the brightly lit hotel lobby, then a ride in a very crammed lift, followed by grey corridors. Jordan, no Carol, she had told him to call her Carol, Carol had opened the door to her room and motioned for him to come in. The door had closed behind him and he had stood in darkness, his heart pounding. Then she was next to him, he had felt her breath on his neck. Her lips brushed over the stubble on his cheek, found his mouth. The soft pressure of her lips, which tasted of wine, the slight wetness of her tongue was enough to let the circuits in his brain fuse. He heard himself moan, as he parted his lips and allowed her tongue to slip into his mouth. Her arms wrapped around his neck, she pushed him against the door, but he didn't mind. For once he was on autopilot and didn't second-guess his every movement. Back against the cold wood of the door, he felt the heat of Carol's body even more acutely. He embraced her, let his hands wander over her back and pulled her as close as he could without crushing her. Even through her jacket, he felt the soft swell of her breasts.  
When she pulled back, he was left breathless, his head spinning. “Will you stay the night, Joe?” Her voice in the darkness sounded husky. Inviting. He only nodded and reached for her. His fingertips brushed against her cheek and he felt her smile. She tugged at his tie, pulling him down for another deep, hungry kiss. Her fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, pulled it from his trousers and pushed it over his shoulders. He didn't have time to react, as her hands moved onto the zip of his trousers. He kicked off his shoes and stepped out of it. Carol ran her palms over his chest, feeling the outlines of his muscles. It made him shiver, which in turn made Carol laugh softly. The next thing he remembered were how badly his hands had trembled as he tried to undress her. She had not complained, had merely kicked off her high heels and undone the buttons of her blouse herself. Then their bodies had collided in another fierce embrace, skin on skin, Chandler had known that there was no going back. Even if he had wanted to, he would not have been able to resist the temptation which was her naked body, her hard nipples pressed against his chest while her tongue plundered his mouth. He scooped her up easily and carried her over to the bed. Carol shrieked in surprise but then giggled, clearly delighted. Chandler lay her down gently. He wished for a little light, so that he would be able to admire the sight before him. The thought slipped from his mind when Carol's arms wrapped around his neck and pulled him down. His body covered hers, her fingernails racked over his back and left scratches. His touches and caressed made her squirm and moan. Chandler delighted in every gasp and sigh. He sucked at her nipples, let his tongue run hot circles around her belly button. Somehow, they found a condom and when Carol's legs wrapped around his hips, he was more than ready to slip inside her. Memory failed him after that. There had been heat and need and desire and not much room for thought. More moans and cries in the darkness and then it was over. He'd come with a cry that sounded too much like a sob and had collapsed on his back next to her, panting hard. His head was still swimming, so he didn't care about the sticky sheets which covered him or the thin layer of sweat which coated his skin. He was out cold even before his heart rate had returned to normal.

When Carol woke, darkness greeted her. Her head was pounding, and she felt faintly sick. Realizing that she was not alone gave her a bad start but then the memories came flooding back. Mansell's birthday party. Too many glasses of Pinot Noir. How she had persuaded Chandler to dance with her, then to walk her to the hotel and then... She felt his naked body underneath the sheets next to her and sighed. God, what a mess she had made! She untangled herself from the blanket and tiptoed across the room to the bathroom. The bright neon light woke her up instantly. She leaned against the closed door, her eyes squeezed shut and tried to get to grips with what had happened. Her body still sang with the after effect of her orgasm. Chandler might have been a little insecure, but he had more than made up for it with thoughtfulness and attention to detail. She chuckled at her choice of words. If he'd been another man, she would have called him a fantastic lover but as it was, Joe Chandler had been at the wrong place at the wrong time. Or in other words: she had been the wrong woman for him. Realisation hit her hard. She had only sought out Joe's company to prove to herself that she didn't need that complicated geek, which was Tony Hill. That she could be perfectly happy without him, thank you very much. Of course, she had failed miserably. Complicated or not, there was no denying it: she loved the man. Had done so for a long time. She might not have wanted to admit to herself but that didn't change the fact. She loved Tony Hill. Despite of all his issues, his broken heart and social awkwardness. Or maybe because of it. Because all of that made him who he was, a very special human being.  
Carol sighed. She dragged herself to the shower. She had messed up good and proper, hadn't she? Now she could only hope that it wasn't too late for an apology, that she hadn't hurt Tony so much that he withdrew completely.

Confused dreams made Chandler's sleep uneasy. He saw Abigail's face, all pale and smeared with blood as she lay bleeding in the interview room. He felt the little sharp pain of the rubber band snapping against his wrist. The rubber band she had given him. There had been no pity in her gaze, only understanding and sympathy.  
When he woke, it was cold in the dark room. It took him a moment to remember and when he did, he felt foolish and ashamed. He shouldn't have done it, shouldn't have gone up with DCI Carol Jordan. Oh, she was a very attractive woman, fierce and strong-willed and the sex itself had been more than enjoyable. And yet... He had a feeling he was not the person she really wanted. Just as she was not the person he really wanted. But when the person you want it dead and it's all your fault, things tend to be complicated. Chandler pushed back the sheets and forced himself to get up. He swayed a little but managed to steady himself. When he found the light switch, the sudden brightness made his head explode. He rushed to the bathroom and threw up. When he was done, he flushed the toilet and rinsed his mouth. God, he felt awful. More than just hung over. He sat down on the edge of the tub, shivering and forced himself to take deep breaths. He had to keep the panic in check which wanted to take over. Calm, he had to remain calm. Breathe, just breathe, Joe, just breathe...  
When he had calmed down a little, he got up and went back to the main room. It didn't really take him by surprise to find that Carol Jordan was gone. He picked up his clothes and dressed quickly. Suddenly he couldn't stand the thought of being in this room. He longed for a long, hot shower at his apartment, clean clothes and a cup of strong coffee. As he waited for his taxi to arrive, rain was falling. The chill of the early morning crept through his clothes, made him shiver and chilled him to the bone. He didn't really mind. The cold felt clean. His mobile beeped. He fished it from the pocket of his jacket and frowned when he saw that it had come from Jordan. It was short and to the point: I had to go. I'm sorry.  
In a strange way the message made him feel better. At least she didn't seem to expect anything more from him, no romantic attachment or whatever. What was wrong with him that a rejection made him feel so glad?

The pounding of the sledgehammer was threatening to crack open his skull. Tony winced as he drifted towards wakefulness. Flashes of memories drifted through his mind: the damn party, Carol and Joe Chandler, the way they had looked at each other before they had disappeared. At the time Tony had thought it a good idea to retreat to his hotel room, buy as many bottles of red wine at the corner store as his blue plastic bag could carry and then drink himself into a stupor. Now he wasn't as convinced. His head was pounding, and he ached all over. Slowly it dawned on him that the noise that sent fresh agony through his head was not in his mind but came from the door. Someone was knocking. Very loudly. Without cease and apparently with no inclination of leaving him be any time soon.  
“Go away,” he first muttered, then shouted out when the knocking continued. His mouth felt like it had been stuffed with cotton balls, his tongue was heavy and alien. His words came out slurred.  
“Let me in, Tony,” a familiar voice called out. Even though it was muffled by the door, it cut at Tony's heart like a knife. Carol! What did she want now that she had made it more than crystal clear to him last night that he had lost her for good. Not that he had ever really had her but anyway. There had still been the tiniest spark of hope in his heart that he might, just might win back her friendship but when he had seen her whisper into Chandler's ear last night, laugh at his awkward jokes, that spark had been extinguished.  
“Open the door, Tony. We have to talk.”  
Almost against his will Tony struggled into a sitting position. He sat at the edge of his bed for a moment, waiting for the world to stop turning around him and squeezed his eyes shut. It would not do to cry. He heard his mother's voice clearly in his mind, calling him a weak sissy and worse for crying as a boy.  
With some effort he pushed those black thoughts from his mind and got up. Swaying slightly, he managed to cross the few meters to the door. He yanked it open and stood aside, his arms folded defiantly across his chest, glaring at Carol. “What do you want?”  
“Come in, first of all.” She looked a little worse for wear as well. Her hair was untidy, and she wore no make-up.  
He threw his hands in the air and walked away. He heard her sigh behind him as she followed him into the room.  
“God Tony, you look awful. What happened to you?”  
He scowled and sat down heavily on one of the armchairs. “What do you think? I got drunk, Carol. Well and truly pissed. I wanted to forget but I'm afraid it didn't work.”  
He buried his face in his hands. He was no longer able to fight the tears. They burned in his eyes, ran down his cheek, hot and bitter and reminded him of every last of his failures.  
“Tony...” Carol whispered his name. It made everything so much worse. After a long moment of silence, she shook him by the shoulder. “Come on, under the shower with you. We have to talk but I'd like you to be sober when we do.” She dragged him to his feet and manoeuvred him to the bathroom, where she switched the shower to 'cold' and left the water running. “Go ahead, take a shower,” she nudged him forward. “It'll clear your head. And Tony?” She added from the door. “Remove your clothes first.”  
The door closed behind him and Tony felt like waking from a strange dream. He realized that he stood in the middle of the small room in only his underwear and cursed softly. He really had made a complete fool of himself, hadn't he? He hung his head, stripped out of his vest and boxer shorts and stepped under the shower. The water was cold and made him gasp and splutter. He hated to admit it, but Carol had been right. It did help to clear his head. When he had soaped himself off, he felt marginally better. He stopped the water and nearly slipped on the tiles as he reached for a towel. A pile of clothes sat on top of the basin. Carol must have found them for him. Tony frowned. He was not sure how he felt about her going through his private stuff, especially after last night. Still it was better than having to ask for her help or to walk around naked in front of her.  
He hurriedly dressed and went back to the main room, feeling like a man going to his execution. He found Carol sitting on the sofa, sipping coffee. She must've ordered it from room service; there was a second cup for him on the table. He once more sat down in the armchair and reached for the coffee.  
“So, you and Chandler,” he said, trying to keep his tone light.  
Carol flinched and choked on her mouthful of coffee. She coughed and shook her head. “No! Look, I know what it looked like but it... It was all wrong. A mistake.” She sighed. “A huge mistake.”  
“Why are you telling me this, Carol?” Tony asked. He couldn't help sounding bitter. “It's not like you need my approval to start a new relationship or something. You never did.”  
“I'm telling you because I want you to believe me, Tony. So much has happened since...” Her voice trailed off and she looked down into her cup.  
“...since you left for South Africa without a word. No goodbye, no warning, no explanation. Nothing!” Tony's voice rose. He was suddenly angry. Angry and more hurt than ever. “You walked out of my life just like that. I thought I'd never see you again. And then there you were, head of a new team, back in the saddle, acting like nothing had happened. It's been years, Carol!”  
He drew a deep breath and swallowed down the words that burned on his tongue. Just when I thought I was ready to give you my heart, you threw it away and now you are back, you ripped it out of my chest and tore it to pieces.  
She regarded him in silence for a long moment, then put her cup of coffee down. “I know. I'm sorry. I don't really know what to say, Tony. I had no choice but to leave.” She held up her hands to silence his protest. “It was an undercover mission, Tony. I'm still not at liberty to speak about it, so please don't ask. When I came back to the UK, so much time had passed, so much had happened... I didn't know how to pick up the pieces. I only returned to policing last year. I didn't want to, but let's face it, it's the only thing I'm good at.” She smiled ruefully.  
“I'm sorry, I hurt you, Tony. I didn't mean to.”  
Tony blinked and swallowed hard. An undercover mission? He couldn't help but picture Carol in all sorts of dangerous situations. It was almost more than he could bear.  
“I came here to tell you this,” Carol continued. “And to ask you a question. But before I do, you have to promise me to tell me the truth, Tony. The complete truth.”  
Anger flared up in his chest once more. “Are you calling me a liar?”  
Carol rolled her eyes. “No. That's not what I meant. But there's so much which has been left unsaid between us, Tony. We've woven a web of half-truths and hidden meanings. I'm so tired of it, Tony. All I'm asking you is not to hide anything from me when I ask you my question. Can you do this? For me?”  
Tony found himself nodding, despite of everything. “Yes.”  
“Good,” Carol smiled but it was tremulous, as if she, too, were close to tears. She inhaled deeply. “Do you love me, Tony?”  
Tony stared at her, open mouthed. He felt like he'd been punched in the stomach. Breathless and stunned. Her words rang rings in his mind. His heart ached so badly he thought it was going to break or at least to stop beating but it didn't. He felt himself tremble as he fought a fresh wave of tears. He closed his eyes for he couldn't bear to look at her. The words finally slipped from his mouth: “Yes, I do. I do. I guess I always have. Loved you.”  
Arms wrapped around his neck. Soft lips pressed against his. His eyes flew open, and he saw Carol kneeling in front of his chair, her head resting against his. She looked at him and wiped a tear from her cheek. “I love you as well, Tony. I see that now. I didn't want to, it made everything much too complicated. But it didn't go away while I was gone. I missed you. I only realized how much when I saw you again in Chandler's office.”  
Tony's head was spinning. Thoughts were racing through his mind. Shouldn't he be happy? Ecstatic that his dreams had finally come true? Why then could he only think of why things would never work out between himself and Carol? Why could he only think of his many shortcomings? His flaws and dark spots?  
“Carol,” I finally managed to say. “You deserve better than me. You know I can't...” He closed his eyes and swallowed down a sob. “Can't be with you like... like Chandler has.”  
Carol hissed in frustration. She framed his face with her hands and shook him. “Look at me, Tony! Look at me!” She met his unsteady gaze without flinching. “Do you think that is all that matters? You know me better than anybody else, Tony. And I know you. You are messed up and you have your issues, but you are kind and loyal and funny if you want to be. You are an intelligent man; you challenge my way of thinking all the time. You...” She kissed the tip of his nose. “You are sweet and caring and...” She kissed his nose again. “You can do so many things. Like hold me, kiss me, be close to me. Wouldn't it be better to concentrate on all the things we can do together than let the one thing we can't separate us forever?”  
Tony was speechless. Totally lost for words. He stood up on shaking legs and walked a few paces. “God, if I weren't so hungover, I'd get a drink,” he muttered.  
Carol climbed to her feet and laughed. “You and me both,” she grinned.  
He wiped at his face with his hand, then looked up and caught her eyes. “Can you say it again?”  
She smiled. “I love you, Tony.”  
The words hit him but not like a blow. They shook the foundation of his loneliness and made the walls that decades of insecurities had erected around him, crumble. A fierce joy exploded in his chest, rushed through his being like a glow of golden sunshine. He crossed the distance between them and threw his arms around Carol. She laughed as he drew her close, nearly crushing her in his embrace. They stood like this for a long moment, arms wrapped around one another, holding on tightly, as if afraid that the moment would pass, and they would find themselves alone once more. Tony closed his eyes and buried his nose in Carol's hair. It was soft and tickled his nose and yet he never wanted to move again. He felt her soft breath against his neck, her hands on his back and her breasts pressed against his chest. She was so soft, so warm and yet so fierce. It was bliss.  
Nevertheless, he had to yawn. Carol laughed again and boxed him playfully. “You really are one hell of a romantic, Tony. But I'm knackered as well. How about we catch some sleep?”  
His heart sank. “You want to leave again?”  
She took his hand and squeezed it. “Not if you don't want me to.”  
He breathed a sigh of relief. “You can take the bed, I'll kip on the sofa.”  
Carol giggled. “Don't be silly. There's enough room in that bed for two. Don't look so alarmed. We'll just sleep.”  
He nodded. He didn't trust his voice as his mouth was suddenly dry and his heart was hammering in his chest. Don't mess this up, don't mess this up...  
She guided him to the bed, fluffed up the pillows and duvet and kicked off her shoes. “Lay down.”  
He did and moved over so that he was facing the wall. He felt the mattress dent under Carol's weight as she lay down behind him. She kissed his cheek, pulled the blanket up tightly around them and snuggled close. Tony felt her warmth, the soft weight of her hand on his arm, the press of her forehead against his back and relaxed slightly. He could get used to this, it felt nice not to be alone.  
When he woke, Tony felt rested and relaxed. Carol's arm was still loosely draped around him, which made him grin like a fool. So, he hadn't dreamed it all, it had really happened, amazing and unbelievable as it was. He rolled onto his back and lay there motionless for a moment, listening to Carol's breaths. When he grew restless, he carefully got up and re-dressed in more formal clothes. He sat down at the side of the bed and placed a fleeting kiss onto Carol's cheek. It made him giddy with joy to be able to do this, so he leaned in and did it again. Carol stirred. She was wide awake within seconds and grinned up at him. “Morning.”  
He chuckled. “More like 'afternoon', it's almost two o'clock. How about lunch? Somewhere fancy, if you want. We have something to celebrate if I'm not mistaken.”  
The smile he got from Carol in return told him all he needed to know.

When Chandler entered the incident room, nearly all of his team was there. He was surprised to see Mansell at his desk, hunched low staring at his laptop screen. By rights the DC ought to feel worse than he did. Chandler had never seen him without a bottle of beer or a glass of whiskey in his hand the night before. Miles was handing out paper cups of coffee. Kent looked pale and ready to pass out but shook himself up when he saw Chandler approach.  
“Morning boss,” Miles acted chirpy, but his blood-shot eyes told a different story. A crying baby and a hangover surely didn't go very well together. Chandler accepted his cup of coffee and grinned.  
Miles’ expression soon turned serious. “Can I talk to you for a moment?” He nodded in the direction of his boss’s office.  
Chandler shrugged his shoulders. “Of course.”  
Miles closed the door but remained standing while Chandler gratefully sank down into his chair. “What is it?”  
Miles looked uncomfortable. He opened his mouth, then snapped it shut again. When he finally spoke, he sounded outraged: “About last night...”  
Chandler held up his hands. “I know what you're going to say, Miles. And I appreciate your concern, but you don't need to lecture me about...”  
Miles cut through his boss’s words: “Look, what you do after your shift and with whom is entirely your business. DCI Jordan looks like she can take care of herself.” He flashed Chandler a sweet smile but quickly went on: “I ought to congratulate you on finally hooking up with a girl, but that's not what I wanted to talk to you about. I thought you should know that your drinks were spiked.”  
Chandler starred at his sergeant. Forgotten was the embarrassment at having his private life discussed, the knowledge that he had made a complete fool of himself. “Spiked?”  
“Yes,” Miles nodded fiercely. He looked ready to murder someone. “Mansell wanted to embarrass Kent and DC Patterson. He had spiked their drinks but then you and DCI Jordan arrived at the bar, he couldn't resist. Kent had only just noticed that Mansell had slipped some droplets into the glasses but was too late to confront him about it. I only heard about it this morning.”  
Chandler couldn't think of a reply. Instead, he laughed. It soon died, and he found that he was angry beyond words. His hands curled into fists and before he knew it, he had stormed passed Miles and out of his office.  
“Mansell,” he shouted. “A word. Now!”  
The DC jumped up from his chair, looking startled. “Sir...”  
Before he could think up an explanation, Chandler had sent him to the floor with a neat punch to the chin. All heads turned to look at him, but Miles had already grabbed hold of his arms to hold him back. Kent looked shocked but also a little pleased. Mansell remained on the floor, flat on his back, rubbing his chin. A thin line of blood ran down his face from a slit lip.  
“If you ever do something like that again, I'll have you hand out traffic tickets for the rest of life,” Chandler hissed as he pulled free of Miles' grip.  
An hour later, Kent came knocking. The young man stuck his head through the door: “There's something you should see, sir.”  
Kent led him to a TV screen. He had paused a grainy black and white film from a CCTV camera. It showed the inside of a petrol station. Kent reached for the remote control and pressed 'play'. Chandler watched as a young woman entered the sales room, browsed the magazine section for a moment and then headed for the cashier. A man walked into the picture. He was tall and broad shouldered. Chandler thought he might be around 35 – 40 years of age. He couldn't be sure; the quality of the picture was too bad to see anything clearly.  
“We believe this is Tracy Edmonds,” Kent pointed at the young woman. “This was filmed the night before she was reported missing, at 4.28 am.” He pressed another button, ejected the tape and replaced it with a different one. When he pressed 'play', the picture on the screen showed the same room. Another young woman came waking in. She picked up a packed sandwich, then headed for the counter.  
“Annie Potter,” Kent pointed out. “Also filmed the night before she disappeared.”  
Chandler watched as the same guy he had seen on the previous tape stepped into the frame. This time he looked up and the camera caught his face for a split second. Kent pressed 'stop' and it froze on the screen. “DC Patterson is currently trying to clean up the picture. According to the shift rota, the name of the bloke is Martin Donald, he lives not far from here in Spitalfields.”  
Chandler wanted to say something, to thank his team for the good work maybe or to get Miles to come with him as he paid Martin Donald a visit, but he never got to say what was on his mind. The door to the incident room burst open and Riley came running in. She looked close to a panic, tears were running down her cheek and she was clutching a handkerchief to her chest.  
Miles rushed across the room to greet her. “What is it, luv?”  
Riley threw him a wild glance, then looked at Chandler. “It's my girl Maggie. I think she's gone missing!”  
The silence which followed her words was so thick it could've been cut with a knife. Chandler felt as if all the oxygen had been sucked from the room. He found it hard to breathe and felt the world around him tilt. He immediately understood Riley's panic; he had met Maggie once, at her mum's birthday party. She was a beautiful young woman of 23, fairly tall and with long brown hair. He tore his gaze from Riley and looked at Miles. The sergeant's face told him that he had come to the same conclusion. The killer had taken Riley's daughter.

As neither of them was familiar with the London restaurant scene, they had decided to have lunch at the hotel's restaurant. It happened to be an Italian, which was fine by both of them. Stealing glances at Carol over the rim of the menu, Tony felt ridiculously happy. She caught him looking and flashed him a radiant smile, which sent his heart racing.  
“You'll make me blush if you continue looking at me like that,” she said.  
“Like what?”  
Carol laughed. “Like you want to kiss me.”  
Despite of the blush that crept into his cheek, Tony didn't avert his eyes. “I've always wanted to kiss you,” he admitted. “Only I thought I'd never get the chance.”  
Carol took his hand and squeezed it softly. “I know. I felt the same. I just didn't dare...”  
“You?” Tony's eyes widened in surprise. “The fearless Carol Jordan, bane of murderous criminals, didn't dare?”  
She poked her tongue out at him. “Silly old git.” He grinned. She turned serious again. “I'm not joking, Tony. I didn't dare to really get involved with you because... “  
“It was all so damn complicated?” Tony offered.  
Carol nodded. “Yes. But mainly because I was scared, I'd lose you completely if I ever told you.”  
Tony squeezed his eyes shut. He looked painted for a moment. “You know, that's exactly what I was thinking.”  
Despite of too many emotions suddenly choking her, Carol laughed. “What a bunch of heroes we are.”  
Tony managed a grin. “What changed?”  
“I realised that if I let you go this time there would be no second chance.”  
“I'm glad you did, Carol. And if it's because of Joe Chandler, then I'm not going to punch him in the face.”  
The waiter chose that moment to take their orders. Tony surprised Carol by ordering two glasses of champagne along with their food. “If this development doesn't merit a toast, I don't know which does.”  
When they clinked glasses, Tony simply said: “I love you, Carol Jordan.” He couldn't help but grin when he saw her blush.  
“I love you, too, Anthony Hill.”  
He grimaced. “Oh please, not even my mother called me Anthony.”  
“Okay, I promise to only use your full name when you've royally messed up.”  
Tony stared at her for a long moment, set his glass down and burst out laughing. He laughed so hard, tears ran down his face. “Deal,” he gasped. “Which means, I'll never get to be called Tony again.”  
Carol joined in his laugher. She felt all warm inside. When was the last time she had felt like that? When was the last time she had seen Tony so relaxed and happy?  
They had just ordered espressos when Carol's phone rang. She threw Tony an apologetic look but reached into the inner pocket of her jacket. “It's the incident room, I'll better take it.”  
As Carol rose to take the call somewhere where she was less likely to be overheard, Tony called the waiter and asked for the bill. The incident room only called if something important had happened. And in their line of work, important often meant it was a matter of life and death. Pocketing his debit card, he followed Carol out into the November drizzle.  
“We're on our way,” were the last words he caught before she hung up.  
“What?”  
“DC Riley's daughter has gone missing,” Carol informed him. “The girl fits the victim type.”  
“Shit!” Tony cursed. He threw Carol his car keys. “You better drive.”

The incident room had become a hive of activity. If everybody had been working hard before, they were pushing themselves to the limit now. Adrenaline pumped through Chandler's veins, firing him up. Forgotten were the spiked drinks and his hang over, even the stupid one-nightstand with Carol Jordan. All that mattered was finding out who the killer was and getting to him before he murdered Maggie.  
Mansell and Kent were on their way to the petrol station to question the manager again and to see if Maggie had been caught on camera the night before. Miles had taken Riley to see Dr Llewellyn, who had given her a mild sedative when she had refused to go home. Now she was sitting in Buchan's archive, sipping tea.  
“Right, what have we got?” Chandler asked. He and Miles had just returned from the address Martin Donald had given in his papers. It had been a fake. 41 Lamb Street stood empty and by the look of the derelict building had done so for quite a while.  
DC Patterson handed him a printout. “It's the best I could do with the still from the CCTV tape. If you remove the beard and the glasses, he does look like the guy who called himself Charles Trepford.”  
Chandler stared at the grainy print out in his hand and nodded. Yes, he could see the resemblance even through the disguise. “I want this circulated everywhere. Get it on the news. Offer a reward. Someone must've seen something. We need them to come forward!”  
“Yes, sir,” Patterson rushed out of the room to speak to the media liaison officer.  
Chandler's phone rang. He answered it at once. He listened intently, then hung up. Feeling Miles' eyes on him, he turned and said: “Kent and Mansell are on their way to the office. Martin Donald has called in sick this morning. I want every available uniform having a look at the CCTV tapes. If Maggie Riley entered that petrol station, I want to know how she left. Follow the car she drove, follow the car Donald used. Get every available footage asap.”  
“I'll talk to the lads,” Miles offered.  
Chandler nodded. “I'll be in my office.” Once he had closed the door behind him, Chandler picked up the phone and dialled the commissioner's number. He didn't look forward to the talk, but he thought it was better if Commander Anderson heard it from him rather than from the evening news.  
After the call, Chandler went back into the incident room. He couldn't stand just sitting around, waiting for disaster to strike. He watched the footage from the CCTV camera at the petrol station over and over again, seeing Tracy Edmonds and Annie Potter come and go.  
“Is there any footage from the roads nearby?” He asked. DC Patterson nodded brusquely. “There are 15 cameras in the vicinity. You know, overlooking supermarket parking lots, cash machines, Underground stations...I've been looking at some of it but found nothing so far.”  
“Sent the files to this machine, I'll have a look as well,” Chandler sat down at the empty desk opposite Kent's.  
“You've got them,” Patterson said barely a minute later.  
Chandler didn't waste any time and clicked on the first file. An hour later his eyes were itchy from staring at the grainy footage so hard. He was about to hit the stop button when something caught his attention. He was looking at the tape from a camera overlooking a cash machine about a hundred yards behind the petrol station. A broad-shouldered man came walking down the road at a brisk speed. A woollen head was pulled low into his face and he kept his head down but Chandler was certain he was looking at man who had served both Tracy Edmonds and Annie Potter before they had disappeared. The man quickly walked out of the frame. Chandler stopped the file. He found one from a nearby car park and played that. The picture of that camera was even more blurred than the one before, but he could just about make out the figure of a man walking quickly along the outer lines of cars to the very edge of the parking lot. He headed for a car which parked just outside the camera's reach It wasn't much, but it was something. Chandler called Patterson over. He showed her what he had found. “Can you get me the number plates of all the cars which come up on the plate recognition cameras on the main road in the area?”  
“Sure thing, boss. Consider it done,” Patterson hurried back to her PC, fingers flying across the keyboard before she had even sat down.

Kent and Mansell came rushing into the incident room, closely followed by DCI Jordan and Dr Hill. Chandler brought them all up to speed. Mansell handed the new CCTV tapes over to Patterson. “I'm going through the list of twins,” he told no-one in particular.  
“Sir?” Kent addressed Chandler. When his boss turned to face him, he said: “The manager recognized Donald when we showed him a picture of Charlie Trepford. Said Donald sometimes talked about a garden retreat he had built on his grandmother's property. He didn't know where exactly that place is, only that it was on the outskirts and close to a small river.”  
“Thank you, Kent, look into it. See if you can find out something about allotments which fit the description.”  
“Yes, sir.”  
“Check if there's an allotment plot near the house where the body of Lucy McBride has been found. She seems to have been the very first victim. It has to mean something that she was kept in the cellar for all this time. Do we know who owned the house?” Tony asked.  
“It's somewhere in the files,” Miles answered. “I'll have a look.”  
The minutes crawled by, then half an hour had passed, then an hour. Chandler watched though the glass panel in the wall of his office but there was nothing he could do. Riley had finally been picked up by her husband, she was still in shock and not fit for work. When Chandler closed his eyes, he saw her red-rimmed eyes and her face, which had been as white as a sheet. Miles had taken her statement and that of her husband. He was currently talking to Maggie's boyfriend, her sister and her best mate. Her father had last seen her at dinner the previous night, at around 9.30. Maggie had done the dishes afterwards, then told her dad that she was going out. Her sister had bumped into her and her boyfriend some time past 11 in a pub in Soho called The Admiral's Head where they all had watched a stand-up comedy show. The boyfriend had left at a quarter past midnight. He had to leave for work early in the morning and wanted to catch some hours of sleep. According to him Maggie had wanted to stay a while longer, she had hardly drunk anything and was still fit to drive. He had texted her when he had reached his flat 40 minutes later but had received no reply. He only got worried when she had not answered by the time he had left for work and had called her parents. Kent was checking the pub, talking to the manager and the employees who had been on duty the night before.  
Commander Anderson wanted to go public, to launch an appeal on the news in which a distraught Riley and her husband were to plead for her daughter's life. Chandler was not convinced it was a good idea. The words of Dr Hill's profile rang rings in his mind: This man is extremely dangerous. He will exhibit no remorse, no empathy or regard for human life...  
So far, he had only managed to stall the commander, but it wasn't good enough. He could change his mind any minute, obsessed with public relations as he was. Chandler sometimes thought that Commander Anderson cared more about the image of the force than about catching the actual criminals but maybe experience had made him cynical. After he'd opened and closed his jar of Tiger Balm for what felt like the millionth time, he got up and walked back into the incident room. He found Dr Hill by the whiteboards, where he was frantically scribbling down notes.  
“Tony, I need your advice.”  
“Hmm?” The profiler turned slowly. He blinked as if he had not expected to see Chandler and then smiled sheepishly. “Sorry, I was elsewhere. What did you say?”  
“I need your advice.”  
Tony nodded. “Of course. On what exactly?”  
Chandler explained about the commissioner wanting to hold a press conference and to launch an appeal. “I told him I didn't think it was a good idea, but he only reluctantly agreed to wait with going public. I need you to give me some more arguments to stop him.”  
“Hmm,” Tony frowned and scratched the back of his head. “You were right, going public at this point would be extremely stupid. Not to mention dangerous. The killer doesn't care about people. He hardly cares about himself. He'll end his own life in the blink of an eye if he's feeling trapped. He's set on killing Maggie, so seeing her parents on the news won't change that. It'll only make him kill her faster, knowing that we know what he's up to.” He chewed his lip for a moment, thinking hard. “No, we can't let him know that we are on his tracks. The more secure he feels, the longer he'll let her live.”  
Chandler went straight back to his office and picked up the phone. It took him ten minutes but finally he got what he'd asked for. Nevertheless, his smile was brittle when he joined Tony by the whiteboard again. “He'll give us 36 hours. I believe he's scheduling the press conference as we speak. But then it won't matter either way, will it?”  
Tony gazed up at the taller man and shook his head. He looked sad. “No, it won't. If he sticks to his timetable, he'll kill her after about 24 hours of her abduction.”  
Chandler rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Which leaves us 12 hours at the most.”  
The two men stared at each other, both feeling helpless and angry at the same time.

Noon had come and gone when Mansell burst into Chandler's office, closely followed by DC Patterson. “We have a name,” he almost shouted. Patterson handed Chandler a couple of print outs, photocopies of official documents like a driver’s licence.  
“Our twin goes by the name of James Mathews. It's as fake a name as Martin Donald. He'd got at least half a dozen other identities. Three names keep popping up repeatedly since his brother died: the two I mentioned and that of Julian Tylor. There are other likely alias from before his brother's death, but it's impossible to tell if they belonged to him or his brother. It's as if only one of them existed at any given time. Never two of them at the same place, at the same time,” Patterson explained.  
Mansell nodded fiercely. “We think we tracked their trail back to before Charlie Trepford died and re-appeared. The link with the fires in the archives is tentative at best but it's all we've got so far. Apparently twins by the name of Jack and John Bradshaw attended St Michael's Grammar School in Bradfield around the time of the fires. They were 16 years old. Then their family moved away, and they were never seen or heard of again.”  
“The twins' parents died in a boating accident shortly after their birth,” Patterson continued. “They grew up at their grandmother's. A Mrs Hartt. She died 5 years ago but spent the last 6 years of her life in a nursing home after she suffered a severe stroke. She owned the house in which Lucy McBride's remains were found.”  
For the fraction of a moment nobody spoke. They all stared at one another, feeling the electric certainty of having come across a vital clue. Before Chandler could find his voice again, Kent's face appeared behind Patterson. He waved a handful of papers through the air to get his bosses attention. “Sir,” he practicality beamed. “Sir, I found the allotment. He's got one at Stepney City Farm. It's only a short walk from St. Dunstan Church, on Rectory Square.”  
“Alright,” Chandler forced himself to act. They were so close to getting to their killer, he could feel it in his bones. He inhaled deeply and prayed for calm. He could not afford to mess this up. For so many reasons but many because he owed it to Riley to bring her girl home alive. He shepherded his team out of his office and into the incident room, brought Miles and the others quickly up to date and then concluded: “Miles, you're taking a team down to the allotment. Approach carefully, we don't want to alert our killer to our presence. Take Mansell and Kent. I'll check what's left of his grandmother's house with DCI Jordan. Tony, you can come along, if you want.”  
Not ten minutes later, the two teams were on their way. Chandler felt uncomfortable in his protective gear. He caught site of Dr Hill, who looked as uneasy as he felt. Joe managed a small smile and forced thoughts of past investigations from his mind: The Ripper getting away, Miles on the floor, bleeding and unconscious, the guy who had lived behind walls falling to his death, the stinking living corpse of John Washington dying of argot poisoning before his very eyes...  
They reached the house in Chelsea in record time. A bunch of police cars was already parked around the property as well as vans with bulky SWAT officers, who were armed to the teeth. Chandler and Carol discussed matters with the officer in charge of the SWAT team, they agreed to keep radio silence until they had established if the killer was on the property and if Maggie Riley was in any immediate danger.  
Carol led them past a small army of heavy-duty vehicles: excavators, power cranes, trucks and the like. Since the body had been found, the demotion work had come to a halt. Carol guessed that the owners and possible buyers were currently fighting over the amount of money the plot was worth now it was known that a murder had taken place there. Once they went past the actual building site, they found themselves on a huge stretch of land. Heaps of dirt, cut down trees and gravel were everywhere as well as pallets with bricks and bags of sand and mortar. Only the tall trees which framed the garden were still left in place, all the hedges, shrubs and even the lawn had been cleared away or ruined beyond repair. It was a chilly day and the pools of water on the muddy ground had frozen over. Tiny icicles crunched softy under their boots and their breath painted small white clouds into the frosty air. It could have been beautiful, with the pale blue sky stretched overhead and the last rays of the sun painting the scenery golden and red, but to Chandler everything looked sinister and ominous, heavy with the possibility of eminent death. Carol led them to what was left of the once grand three-storey house. Chandler could make out the outlines of the ground-floor. The foundation had been laid in concrete and while it was weather-worn, it still looked pretty solid. Crime-scene tape flapped in the wind.  
Chandler scanned the ground, but it was too waterlogged to contain any fresh footprints. He drew his gun as Carol reached the foot of a staircase which led down to the cellar. She threw him a quick glance over her shoulder, nodded curtly and drew her gun as well. He went down the stairs first, almost sick with nervousness and apprehension. He peered around one corner, then the other, gun always at the ready and finally waved. All clear. He heard Carol's footsteps behind him and went on, mindful of making as little noise as possible on the uneven ground. By the time they had reached the underground room where the body had been found, Chandler thought he could hear the grass grow. His senses were so alert, every small noise made him startle and glance around. But it had all been in vain: the room was empty, and nothing indicated that anyone had been down there since the police and the CSI guys had left.  
“Are there any corridors, any adjacent rooms?” Chandler asked in a whisper.  
Carol shook her head. “No, there once was a coal cellar but the ceiling has caved in. From the look of it, that happened a long time ago. The stairways we came down is the only way to reach this place.”  
Chandler nodded and released a shaky breath. He put his gun away and stood in the middle of the bare room, glancing at the muddy brick floor, the bare walls made of concrete. He breathed the musty air and forced himself not to think of the poor girl who had died here three years ago. Of her mummified body which had lain here, undetected, while her mother had hoped against hope to see her daughter again one day. Carol went over to Chandler and placed a careful hand on his shoulder. When he faced her, she smiled. “Come on, Joe. We better go. There's nothing here.”  
He stared at her for a long moment, then nodded. He didn't need to be told that they were running out of time.  
Tony was waiting for them upstairs. He had a thoughtful look on his face but said nothing when they walked back to the car.

Stepney City Farm was a haven. A green sanctuary in the middle of a busy modern city. They walked down winding gravel paths, high wooden fences, hedges of all kinds, even dry-stone walls. As the trees had mostly shed their foliage, they caught glimpses of the single allotments: of garden sheds and apple trees, pigsties and compost heaps. Miles felt transported back to the days of his early childhood where his father had bred racing pigeons in the backyard and his mother had tended the cabbage patch. The plot they were interested in lay at the very edge of the complex. Miles thought that it would be easy to reach it unnoticed. There were so many dirt tracks, so many gaps in the hedges, if someone knew his way around, he would be able to hide from view completely. His spirits sank when they rounded a corner. Their killer's plot came into view. It was all overgrown and screamed of neglect. The words of the council worker responsible for dealing with allotment applications echoed through his mind: “Julian's lease was paid five years in advance. Otherwise, we would have asked him to leave long ago. It's not our custom to turn what could be a productive patch of land into a wasteland.”  
What they found beyond the screeching front gate was a wasteland indeed. Weeds had grown tall. Hogweed formed near impregnable hedges. Ivy, Virginia Creepers and hops were choking the fruit trees and had turned them into little more than overgrown piles of green. Miles found the garden shed only when he stumbled over a step which had disappeared underneath a thick layer of moss. The shed, too, was covered by vines and hidden from view by hedges of hazel. Miles motioned at Kent and Mansell to walk around the building to look for another entrance. When they were out of sight, he drew his gun and found the door. Luckily for him, it stood ajar. Miles squeezed through. He stood motionless in the strange green darkness, waiting for his eyes to adjust. When he was able to make out more than vague shapes he stepped forward.  
The shed was crammed full of broken and rusted tools, heaps of sand and withered plants in plastic pots. It was a sad sight and to the busy city farmers a sure affront. Miles found a way around the long room. At the back a space had been cleared of debris: a metal frame bed with a mouldy mattress stood in a corner. Handcuffs dangled from the frame. Miles sucked in a breath and went on, gun drawn and ready to shoot. He spotted a metal filing cabinet by the foot end of the bed. Rolls of duct tape piled up on it. A fat coil of rope lay on the ground next to it. So, they had found the killer after all. But if this was his lair, where on earth was he? And even more importantly, where was Maggie Riley?  
Miles startled when a screech broke the silence. He whirred around but it was only Mansell and Kent, who had found the back door.  
“Nothing back there, Skip,” Mansell said. “It's a jungle, there's no way anyone's came through there lately. You can't help but make it look like a bulldozer's crashed through the thicket.”  
“Let's have a closer look at the adjacent plots, just to be on the safe side,” Miles suggested. “Our boy's been here, there's stuff in the shed which suggest that girls were held prisoner here. But nothing which looks terrible recent. I'll call it in, we have a look around and then I'll call the boss.”  
Mansell and Kent nodded. They spent the next hour looking at more garden sheds and plots than either of them felt comfortable with, being city boys through and through. Nothing of interest emerged. Miles was sure that the bird had flown long ago. He didn't dare to say so though. To speak those words aloud, would have been like an admission of failure. And he didn't want to fail Riley.

Back at the incident room, Chandler was talking to Miles. The sergeant was still overseeing the search of the allotment at Stepney City Farm. When he hung up, Chandler felt disheartened. He'd been so sure they were on the right track, that catching their killer would be only a matter of time. Now time was the one thing they were running out of fast. The minutes ticked by, turned into hours, ever diminishing the chance of seeing Riley's daughter alive again. Dr Hill was pacing the floor, muttering to himself, while Patterson was running through her databases, cross-referencing everything they had found out so far, looking for anything they might have overlooked, any clue as to where the killer could've taken Maggie.  
Carol was on the phone to her own sergeant, exchanging information firsthand, making sure they had not missed any new developments. Chandler had talked to the manager of the petrol station where Martin Donald had worked but had only learned that Donald still had not shown up.  
They were running around in circles, like headless chicken and it was driving him insane. Chandler reached for the Tiger Balm and massage a generous amount onto his temples. Nervousness tied his stomach into tight knots, made him jittery and jumpy. He wanted to do something, anything, to help find Maggie. He had to keep calm, to keep a clear head. He told himself that over and over again, but it was getting harder and harder to breath normally and not to panic with every quarter of an hour which passed.  
Chandler pushed his chair back and rose to his feet. He went back into the incident room. At least he felt like he was doing something, when he was with his team and not just twiddling his thumbs and dodging Anderson's calls. Dr Hill had pinned an enlarged version of the blue print of the house in Chelsea to the wall, next to an satellite photograph of the same area. Seeing those, Chandler stopped and frowned. Something was bothering him, something he had read in the files but only half-remembered. Something which had seemed unimportant at the time but which his subconscious mind insisted might be of vital importance now. He headed over to Patterson's desk.  
“Can you get me a detailed look at Mrs Hartt's property?”  
“You mean like on Google Maps?” The young woman asked absent-mindedly as she was scanning some records on her screen.  
Chandler stared at her and felt extremely foolish. He left the PC to her own devices and revived the machine he had worked at earlier. Tony came wandering over. He looked troubled and Chandler couldn't blame him.  
“Do you think our killer is somewhere completely different by now?” Joe couldn't help but ask. He dreaded the answer, but he had to face the possibility. Pretending they had everything under control when in truth they were whistling in the dark wouldn't get them anywhere.  
“I can't really say,” Tony began but then shook his head fiercely. “I know that it looks like he must've run but I don't buy it. The house belonged to his grandmother. He grew up there. He lived there with his twin brother. It's where the first murder took place. It's too important a place for him to abandon. But where could he have gone to? Where?” Tony wandered off again. Chandler stared after him for a second. Where indeed? He had seen the place with his own two eyes. There was nothing! No secret hiding place. When the body had been found, a team of forensic experts had been looking for more bodies in the ground, for trap doors and even lime pits but had found nothing. Everything which had once stood on Mrs Hartt's property had been flattened and removed. Chandler opened the internet browser and got to work. He still had no idea what he was looking for but he was confident that he would know once he saw it.

Tony on the other hand was trying to get inside the killer's head. He had once thought he understood what made him tick but he had been wrong. At least partially. Because he had been dealing with two killers and not just one. But now one was dead and the other, the formally submissive one, had been forced to take over, to finish the mission.  
“What prompted you to show your head? To leave your hibernation and to pick up the knife?” Tony muttered. He sat down on an empty chair and stared at the ceiling. He was only half aware of Carol watching him. He was used to it and besides, as lovely as she was, he had more important things on his mind right now. Like saving a life.  
“Your brother died. He killed himself, but you won't see it like that. You'll think the cops have taken him from you, that they are to blame. Maybe you think I am to blame but if you do, you haven't done anything about it. Why?” Tony closed his eyes, puffed up his cheeks and tried to think more clearly. “You are scared, aren't you? You always were the scaredy-cat, weren't you? The one who was afraid in the dark, who cried his eyes out when granny locked you and your brother in the cellar for days on end. That's why he could boss you around. That's why you never questioned his authority. He cared for you. He told you what to do. And when he was gone, you had no idea about real life. You had to learn everything. How to work a job, how to rent a flat, everything. How to stay under the radar. So, what made you kill?”  
He drummed his fingers against the armrest of the chair. “Were you living in the house all that time? Without running water and electricity? Bunking in the cellar like a vagrant? Then coming home one night and finding your front garden gone would have been a huge shock. After a while you will have realized that you could not go back, that those building site workers were not going to go away. They were erasing the last reminder of your past, the last thing that linked you to your grandmother and your brother. Did you panic? Did you get angry? Oh yes, you were angry! So very angry. They took everything from you, and you needed to pay it back to them. So, you did but why young brown-haired girls?” Tony thought about that for a while but eventually decided he had insufficient data to form an assured opinion. What was more important was to find a clue where the killer was hiding. Tony had a feeling he wasn't too far off, that he was more of less hiding in plain sight, but he could not have said what gave him the idea.  
Cellars... He knew from a diary the fake Charlie Trepford had kept that he had spent part of his early childhood in his grandmother's house, locked in a confined, bare, dark space. He, like everybody else, had assumed that it must have been a cellar but now that he had seen the cellar in Mrs Hartt's house, he was not so sure anymore. Why London? Why not Bradfield? Had Charlie and his brother only lived there after they had escaped their grandmother's house? But how? Who had helped them, two boys, severely disturbed and volatile, despite their young age of barely six? Another relative? Someone who knew about what went on in Mrs Hartt's house? Had the boys been given their first new identity back then, in an attempt to help them? It would've made sense, Tony thought. It would have taught them how to get away. Given them a taste for lies and deception.  
But if it hadn't been a cellar where the boys had been kept prisoner, then what? The same kind of place where they had later kept their first victim before killing her. The same place where Maggie was being held captive now. “Of course!” Tony jumped to his feet, not noticing that the chair crashed to the ground behind him. He smacked his flat palm against his forehead and rushed to Chandler's side.  
“A bunker,” he called out just as Chandler faced him. He stared at the computer screen and smiled. He had been right. Chandler had found what used to be a gravel path between houses, but which now could only be seen from above. It led to an underground structure, an air raid bunker from WWII. It made perfect sense. At the time when the twins had been little, in the early 1980s an overgrown wasteland had stretched out behind the houses. A no-man's wilderness, in which the bunker had been forgotten by most of the neighbours. And beneath those sturdy walls, nobody would hear two boys screaming and crying night after night. Carol was suddenly behind them, staring over their shoulders at the screen.  
“Let's get going,” she urged them on. Chandler was already on his feet. Tony had to jog to catch up with him.  
“Patterson make some uniforms rendezvous with us at the house,” Chandler instructed as he crossed the room to the door. He didn't wait for a reply but turned to face Carol. “Will you drive?”  
And drive Carol did. Tony thought, the ride couldn't be any faster and any more dangerous had the proverbial hound from hell been on their heels. Darkness had fallen an hour ago and he was praying that somehow, they would not be too late. He knew the others were thinking the same thing, he only had to look at Carol's and Joe's faces, expressions stony and well-guarded but not able to hide the frowns and the fear in their eyes.  
Carol drove them to Mrs Hartt's property but this time they approached it from where the back alley once had been. Carol parked a good mile from the bunker. Here the car wouldn't be spotted right away, hidden amongst the contractor's sheds and more heavy-duty machines. When they left the car, they stood in absolute darkness. The nearest streetlamp was only a tiny spot in the distance and cars only passed every now and then. They all carried torches but had agreed that they would only use them if absolutely necessary. So, they trudge on in the cover of darkness. Carol once more led the way. Her black trainers barely made a sound on the grassy soil and Chandler almost wished he had thought about getting changed before they had left. As it was, he still wore his suit but a black bullet-proof vest instead of his jacket. Tony wore a similar model and a back windcheater on top. They walked in silence, freezing in their movements at the slightest noise, which meant that it took them nearly half an hour to reach the bunker. They had to squeeze through an overgrown hedge, thick with brambles. They glanced at one another when they emerged from the thicket. A dirt track led to the entrance of the bunker, a heavy steel door, which stood ajar. A kerb stone had been wedged between it and the frame to prevent it from falling shut. Even though no light penetrated from within, they were certain that someone was inside that bunker at the very moment.  
Chandler licked his lips and drew his gun. Squaring his shoulders, he squeezed through the gap and carefully went down the steps. Tony and Carol followed close behind. Soon Joe's silhouette was the only thing they were able to see in the inky darkness. The metal steps didn't lead too far down, Chandler estimated they had maybe gone as far as 4 to 5 feet underground, but they were slippery, and it was difficult to walk in silence, so it took quite some time before they reached the ground. Chandler held his breath and listened hard. His hands were trembling, so he grabbed the gun tighter. A low-ceilinged corridor led left and right. Chandler walked to the left, while Carol took the right turn.  
“You stay here, in case our boy has gone out for some shopping,” she whispered into Tony's ear. The profiler nodded. He hated the thought of not being at her side, but he understood that he would most likely only be in the way in case things got out of hand.  
Chandler walked on, one hand against the wall, talking one step at a time. He peered hard into the darkness and strained his ears. After a few meters, he froze. There. Someone was talking. The voice sounded muffled and distorted, no doubt by extremely thick walls but it was definitely there. Another two steps and he was able to see a grey rectangle in front of him. It turned out to be a wooden door, which smelled of rot. Chandler approached slowly. He edged closer to the door. It didn't shut very well, and he was able to steal a few glances through the gaps. A dimly lit room lay beyond. It was grimy and smelled almost as bad as a sewer. A metal frame bed stood in the middle of the room. A body lay motionless on top of it, covered by a thin dirty blanket. Chandler could not see her face but was hoping he had found Riley's daughter. A noise made him press himself flat against the wall. Footsteps from behind the door. So, the killer was inside that room! Suddenly Chandler's head was clear, and he felt calmness decent on him like a blanket. It wrapped itself around him. He knew what he had to do, and he didn't hesitate for even a split second. He kicked in the door and stormed into the room, gun pointing ahead, then left and right. Apart from the body on the bed, there was no-one! Chandler's felt the air in his lungs freeze when he heard a dry chuckle behind him. Something heavy connected with the back of his head and sent him crashing to the floor. He'd lost consciousness even before his body hit the ground.

Tony hated having to wait. He didn't dare pace the floor, for fear of alerting the killer to his presence, so he merely shifted his weight from one foot to the other and counted the seconds in his head. Joe's foot falls had ceased, there was a pause and then a commotion. Wood splintered, a body thudded to the floor and footsteps came running towards him. Tony blinked into the darkness around him, confused and concerned. Eventually he caught sight of a shape which rushed into his direction. It was broad shouldered but not much taller than himself. So, it wasn't Chandler, which could only mean...  
“Shit,” Tony cursed. His right hand closed around the gun in the pocket of his jacket. He automatically undid the safety pin and lifted his arm, aiming the weapon at the advancing shape in front of him.  
“You won't dare to shoot, doctor,” a voice mocked him. It seemed to float in the darkness. “I've been watching you; you are not very brave. I bet your mother knew that, too.”  
At the back of his head Tony knew that he should simply ignore the ramblings of a deranged killer, but he couldn't help it, the words cut too deep. They went straight through his defences, like a hot knife through butter. He felt himself tremble as memories of Vanessa's vile words flashed through his mind. Without warning he was six years old again and as scared and lonely. The shape in front of him took a step closer. Then another. Tony still held the gun, but he knew he would not press the trigger. And what was worse, the dry chuckle of the shape, which now revealed itself to be that of a man in his late 30s, told him the killer knew it too. A punch landed on Tony's chin. The impact made him stagger and he landed at the foot of the stairs. The gun crashed to the ground. When his vision cleared, Tony found it aimed at him.  
“Come on, on your feet,” the man hissed.  
Tony hastened to comply. As long as the killer was busy with him, he could not harm Maggie. Provided that she was still alive. The killer waved the gun through the air. Tony had no choice but to walk ahead, hands held up in the universal gesture of surrender. He was now angry with himself. About the fact that one unguarded moment had made him easy prey. Damn Vanessa to the seven circles of hell and beyond for leaving him so messed up and vulnerable.  
“Why don't you drop the gun?” He asked. He had not much hope that he'd be able to talk the surviving twin out of killing first him and then himself, but he had to try. Hopefully, Carol would hear him and stay clear. “What shall I call you? Martin? Julian? Oh, I know about your secret identities. But tell me, are you Jack or John? I know you were born a Bradshaw, you don't have to lie to me.”  
“Shut up,” the man behind him screamed. Tony swallowed hard. That had been the scream of a lunatic and it send shivers of dread down his spine. The muzzle of the gun poked hard into the back of his head. Tony stumbled on, not knowing where he was going or what awaited him there.  
“The door at the end,” the voice instructed. Tony nodded and reached a trembling hand out. The door swung open under his touch. It didn't make any noise.  
“Inside.”  
The gun still pressed against his head, so Tony had no choice but to comply. Before he stepped over the threshold, he saw a movement from the corners of his eyes. Then a woman screamed. “Carol!” Tony shouted but once more the gun pressed against his head and froze him in mid-motion. He more heard than saw the killer crouch down, grab Carol by her hair and hoist her back to her feet. “You walk, doc,” he snarled.  
Tony did as he was told and found himself in a small room. Simple metal shelves lined two of the walls, a table and a chair stood opposite the door. The table was crammed full of chemist equipment and vials and bottles containing vile looking liquids. Tony's mouth went dry. He recalled the case file from three years ago. Of how the so-called Charlie Trepford had committed suicide.  
“Over to the table, doc,” the killer gave him a shove forward and Tony stumbled a few steps. “Pick up the tiny bottle in the middle.”  
Tony felt like his world was going to decent into darkness as he reached for the bottle. It looked innocent enough, was neatly stoppered but not labelled.  
“Turn around.”  
Tony slowly turned. He tried to smile when he caught sight of Carol. The killer had wrapped an arm around her neck, hand clasped over her mouth. Blood ran from her nose, but her eyes were very much alert. They shot daggers at the man who held her.  
“Unscrew the bottle.”  
It took Tony three attempts; his hands shook so badly. Carol tried to break free of the killer's grip. She struggled and kicked but it only earned her a slap across her face. The killer shoved her hard against the wall. Tony heard the dull thud as her head impacted with the stone and cried out. He wanted to leap forward, to get to Carol but the gun in front of his face stopped him short. The killer reached into the pocket of his worn leather jacket and pulled out a small revolver. He aimed it at Carol. “Drink, doc, or I'll shoot your girl.”  
Tony stared at the bottle, which he miraculously still held in his hands. “Why bother?” He finally asked. “You'll kill her anyway. You can't risk leaving anyone behind who can identify you.”  
The man in front of him grinned. “Correct, but if you don't drink, she has to drink. How does that sound?”  
Tony stared at the man. A million questions ran through his mind, a million things he wanted to say but none of it mattered. The only regret he felt as he lifted the bottle to his lips was that his time with Carol had been cut so brutally short, now that they had finally truly found each other.  
“Tony, no,” Carol's cry rang out, as the first drops of a bitter liquid touched his tongue. They burned like hell. Blood filled his mouth. He swallowed. A shot rang out. Something hot and wet rained down on him. Carol screamed again. Tony found himself staggering backwards as the bottle slipped from his hand. It landed on the floor and shattered there, spilling its poisonous contents. He saw Carol rush forward, running past the motionless body of the killer. Blood pooled on the floor. Tony belatedly realized that half of the man's head was missing and that he was now covered in blood and brain matter. Chandler knelt by the body. For a second their eyes met and then there was only darkness.  
“No!” Carol's cry spurted Chandler into action. He dropped the gun and scrambled to his feet. It didn't matter that he had just shot his suspect, that he had most likely killed a human being. All that mattered was that they got Tony to hospital asap. That Maggie Riley was still alive. He fished his mobile from the pocket of his bullet proof vest.  
He reported their exact location and then continued: “We need ambulances. Dr Hill was poisoned. He is currently unconscious. No, I don't know what substance he was forced to consume. He... he only swallowed down a mouthful, but he passed out barely a minute later.” He knelt down where Tony had fallen, for the moment ignoring Carol, who knelt on Tony's other side, clutching his hand, crying silently.  
“He is breathing but very shallowly. His heartbeat is slow and irregular. The skin of his hand feels clammy and cold. There's bloody foam dribbling out of his mouth. There's another person down with a fatal head wound. We strongly suspect him to be a wanted killer. And there's a victim here, possibly unconscious. I had no time to check on her yet. No, I can't check what substance it was, just get here, dammit!” Chandler hung up. He wanted to throw the phone, smash it against the wall and trample it until it was reduced to smithereens, but he reigned in his temper. Forcing himself to take a few deep breaths, he walked around the motionless body of the profiler and placed a careful hand on Carol's shoulder. She jumped to her feet, raining punches down on him. Chandler let her continue. Her blows didn't really hurt. What did was the look on her face, the expression of sheer horror and naked fear. He realized that he cared for the woman, like he cared for the profiler. Friends. They might have been friends. The thought drifted through his head. It felt unreal. He grabbed hold of her wrists and held them fast, even though he hated himself for having to hurt her like that.  
“Stop,” he shouted. “Stop,” he repeated a little calmer. “You don't help him by getting hysterical. I know what he means to you and it's fine. Help me getting him into recovery position. Give me your jacket to keep him warm.”  
Carol stared at Chandler, then hung her head and nodded. They worked silently side by side. When there was nothing they could do, Chandler left her kneeling by Tony's side. He first checked on the girl on the bed. It indeed was Maggie Riley. She was alive but unconscious, no doubt drugged. He climbed the stairs and went back to where they had parked the car. It felt like a lifetime had passed since then. Seconds crawled by but eventually the ambulances arrived. A swirl of activity followed. Medics rushed back and forth, orders were shouted. Five minutes later, a helicopter touched down close to the house and Tony was wheeled to it on a stretcher. An oxygen masked covered most of his face but at least he was still able to breath by himself. That had to be a good sign. Chandler watched as Carol climbed into the cockpit and the helicopter took off again. He stood in the middle of it all, watching, answering questions, and giving orders, while part of him felt numb.

Later he had no recollection of how he had gotten to the hospital they had taken Tony to. He didn't remember the frantic drive, the constantly blaring horns behind him, as he wove in and out of the thick traffic at a break-neck speed. He only remembered the bright neon light of the hospital corridor, the nurse he'd talked to at reception. She'd given him a funny look but when he'd flashed his batch, she had led him to the waiting area in intensive care. He found Carol slumped onto a plastic chair. Her face was pale and wet with tears.  
Chandler stopped in his tracks. He felt like he'd been slapped in the face. Suddenly all the pain registered in his brain, flooded his body, and exploded in his heart. He exhaled audibly. Not now, he could not break down now. He had to be strong. For her. For him. For his friends. Ignoring the jelly in his knees and the way his head was spinning, he knelt in front of Carol's chair. Her head lifted, and she gazed at him, her eyes brimming with tears. Then she slung her arms around his neck and squeezed him tight. Chandler wrapped his arms around her shoulders and held her. Just like that, without second thoughts or any sense of loss or bitterness. He held her because she needed a friend. Time stood still. The only sound in the room were his ragged breathing and her sobs. Eventually her tears stopped. She rested her head against his shoulder, catching her breath. Carefully she withdrew and leaned back on her chair. She threw him a loop-sided smile as he got to his feet and then sat down next to her.  
“You are a good man,” she caressed his cheek. “I'm sorry that things happened the way they did. I never meant to use you. I like you. Just not like that,” she let her voice trail off. “I don't know what got into me. I wouldn't normally do this kind of thing.”  
He waved a hand through the air. “Never mind. Mansell had our drinks spiked.” he grinned when Carol stared at him open-mouthed. “He wanted to set up Kent and your computer wizz kid.” He turned serious again. “I'm sorry about what happened to Tony. I really am. I...” he swallowed hard. “I sort of like him, I guess.”  
Carol let out a short bark of laughter and squeezed his hand. “Thanks. I know I shouldn't fall apart like this but... I just don't know what I'll do if... if he... oh god!”  
Fresh tears welled up and ran down her face. Chandler reached for her hand and held it. They sat like that for what felt an eternity but, was only little more than an hour.  
A doctor in blue scrubs headed in their direction.  
“Are you the police?”  
Chandler needed a moment to process the question. He had almost forgotten that he was still on duty. He nodded. “Yes. I'm DI Chandler. This is DCI Jordan. Dr Hill is a colleague.”  
The doctor hesitated for a moment but then sighed. “Alright, I'll tell you all I can. Before you lot show up with a warrant or whatever. It was touch and go for a moment, but Dr Hill will most likely make a complete recovery. We pumped his stomach and were able to minimize the damage to his gullet. He will have problems swallowing but once the wound is healed, he should be right as rain. He's still unconscious but that's actually better. Like that he won't have to bare the worst of the pain.”  
“Thank God,” Carol breathed a heavy sigh of relief. “Thank you, doctor. When can I see him?”  
The doctor threw her a funny look. “He's being cleaned up at the moment. I can get you all suited up and then you can see him. Five minutes, not longer.”  
Carol nodded gratefully. “Do you mind...?”  
Joe shook his head. “Of course not. You go.” He watched as she followed the doctor through a set of security doors. As soon as she was out of sight, he felt his armour crumble. He began to shake all over. He was shivering, and the pulse was racing in his veins. His breaths were coming too fast and too shallow. He would make himself faint from hyperventilating. He rose to his feet. His hands, when he held them out in front of him, were trembling badly. He felt sick and rushed down the corridor, hand clasped over his mouth. He barely made it to one of the cubicles at the man's toilet before he threw up. Coughing and retching, he knelt on the cold tiled floor.  
When he was done, he felt like he would never eat again. He flushed the toilet, wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt and leaned against the wall. His head was throbbing, and he was both hot and cold. Silent tears were running down his face. He had killed someone! He could not get the sound of the gun shot out of his head, the wet thud with which the body had hit the ground. He had crossed a line and he was not sure if he would be able to live with what he had done. Did the ends justify the means? Did the fact that he had saved both Tony and Carol justify the fact that he had taken a life? Would he feel any better if he hadn't? If the killer were alive and Tony and Carol dead? He shook his head frantically, clenching his hands into fists.  
He had no idea how long he had sat on the floor in front of the toilet like that but when he finally got up, he was stiff and cold. Frozen to the bone. He dragged himself into the anteroom with the wash basins. Catching sight of himself in the mirror, froze him in mid-motion. He was covered from head to toe in blood and organic matter. No wonder that the nurse had looked at him oddly. The shivers started afresh. Joe let out an anguished scream. He couldn't stand this. Couldn't stand what he'd become, what he'd done. He couldn't stand it, couldn't stand himself. He screamed again and aimed a straight jab at his reflection. The mirror shattered. Glass shards flew everywhere. A sharp pain exploded in Chandler's arm. He wanted to ignore it, to lash out, to punch again and again until the pain overrode everything, but someone stopped him. Someone grabbed his arm and held it. He whirled around, furious but it was only Carol who stood in front of him.  
“Don't, Joe,” she said softly. He hung his head, breathing hard. Tears burned in his eyes and he felt ill and exhausted. She framed his face and placed a soft kiss on his forehead. “It's okay, it's all over. Tony will be fine. I just saw him. It's all going to be okay.”  
When she took his hand and led him to one of the basins, he had no strength to protest. He let her unbutton his shirt, wash the blood and grime from his face, his hair, his chest and hands. The cold water felt good on his feverish skin and slowly his head cleared.  
“Thank you,” he muttered.  
Carol smiled warmly at him. “Don't mention it.” She walked back to the door and picked something up from the floor. She handed it to him. “A fresh shirt.” She grinned. “Young Kent drove all the way from the police station to give you that. He said you can call him any time, should you need a lift. Oh, and Miles is outside, acting like a perfect mother hen despite his constant swearing.”  
Chandler managed a small smile. “Thank you,” he repeated. “I mean it.”  
She caressed his cheek and nodded. “Take your time. I'll wait outside. Care for a drink later?”  
When Chandler left the toilet, he felt a little better. Yes, he had taken a life and it would haunt him for the rest of his life. But now he was certain that he had made the right decision. Just like back then, when he had let the Ripper escape to save Miles. He might have had to learn it the hard way, but some things were more important than a career or what others thought of him. Things like loyalty and friendship.  
As he walked down the corridor, he squared his shoulders and held his head high. It would take more for Joseph Chandler to admit defeat. What had Miles once said to him? It's okay to make mistakes and to fall but it's not okay to not get up. Oh, he had scrambled to his feet alright. Might be on shaky legs but here he was, ready to rise to another challenge. He had a good team. He had made friends. That was more than he'd ever expected.  
He reached the waiting room where he had found Carol earlier. She was still there, drinking coffee from a plastic cup, talking to Miles, who was pacing the floor by the doors. When he spotted him, the sergeant grinned? For a dreadful moment, Chandler feared, Miles would hug him but then he only slapped his shoulder and grumbled: “What took you so long? Needed a manicure? You're pretty enough as it is, boss.”  
Chandler laughed. Really laughed. So hard that tears ran down his face, that he got stitches in his side. Still, it was the best feeling in the world. He laughed and laughed and felt the tension drain away.  
When he had calmed down a bit, Miles said: “Maggie will be alright. She was drugged and they'll keep her on intensive care overnight just to be on the safe side, but she was already talking when her mum and dad got here.”  
Chandler closed his eyes. Relief flooded him. “Thank God,” he muttered. “And the twin?”  
“Dead,” Miles said, not bothering to hide his disgust. “Died before the ambulance even got there, apparently.”  
Chandler nodded. Carol placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed softly. “You saved my life, Joe. And Tony's.”  
Miles huffed. “What's this? The Joseph Chandler Appreciation Society? He saved my life, too. So, what? Come on, let's all have a drink. I sure as hell need one!”

Tony had been deemed stable enough to be moved to a normal ward the next morning. When Carol had arrived, he had been fast asleep, looking pale and a little lost amongst the white sheets. Carol had never understood why hospital rooms and corridors were usually painted white. Everything looked either sterile and devoid of life or grubby after years of use. White walls, white ceilings, white sheets... It was so depressing. Carol sighed as she pulled up a chair and settled down by Tony's side. She wanted to be there when he woke up. She took Tony's hand and held it between her own palms. It was cold but not as clammy as it had been the day before. Carol squeezed Tony's hand softly and leaned back as she stifled a yawn. She had woken with a first class hang over the second day in a row. Her head was still pounding but after a quick breakfast of toast and tea, her stomach had settled down. She grinned as she thought about the night before.  
Miles had dragged them to The Brown Bear, a pub not far from the Whitechapel police station. Legend had it that the policemen, who had been involved in the Jack the Ripper investigation had had their pints there. Carol had wondered what Abberline and Reid had talked about at the end of their gruelling shifts. Had they complained that their wives and kids hardly ever got to see them, with that lunatic stalking the East End and people like Freddy Best stirring up a panic? It was odd to walk on such history-soaked ground, Carol mused. Bradfield was not known for its historical crimes, so Carol never had to deal with the baggage of the past. Not like Chandler had to, doomed as he and his team were to forever walk in the shadows of the Ripper, the Krays and all the other demented souls who had committed atrocious crimes in Whitechapel through the years.  
If the beer had come from the same local brewery back in the 1880s, Carol could not blame the inspectors for frequenting The Brown Bear. The ale was excellent and the food decent and not overpriced. They had spent a few hours in there, drinking, talking and laughing. It had been an attempt at playing at normality. They all knew that the facade could shatter any second, with another phone call, another murder but for once that didn't stop them enjoying themselves. Life was too precious to worry all the time, Carol thought. You never knew how long the moment of peace and happiness lasted. Tony's poisoning had been a rude reminder of that. Carol squeezed his hand again. She was determined to make the most of their new relationship. She would be stubborn and not allow him to slip away. She smiled as her eyes fluttered shut. He had told her he loved her. He’d better not get cold feet about it.  
The sound of someone coughing woke Carol up sometime later. She groaned. Judging by the stiffness of her neck, she had been asleep on the plastic chair for quite some time. When she opened her eyes, all her discomforts were forgotten, as she found herself staring at Tony, who had sat up in bed. He was still coughing, still pale but he was awake and very much alive.  
“Tony!” Carol exclaimed, grinning from ear to ear like a total fool.  
The profiler grimaced between coughs but the sparkle in his eyes made her smile.  
“Here,” she handed him a glass of water with a straw in it. Tony drank eagerly, and his coughs subsided. He pulled a face as he swallowed. He opened his mouth to speak but Carol placed a finger over his lips to silence him.  
“Sush, don't try to talk. Your throat got badly damaged by the poison that sicko made your drink.” When she saw Tony tense up at the mention of the killer, she reached for his hand and squeezed it gently. “It’s alright. The guy's dead. Joe shot him before he could do any more damage. Riley's daughter is okay, I think her parents will be able to take her home today.”  
Tony nodded. Then closed his eyes. He let out a deep breath and sank back into his pillows. Carol could only guess what was going on his mind, but she knew it wasn't anything pleasant. She got up from her chair and sat down on the edge of the small hospital bed.  
“Tony...”  
His eyes flew open. He looked right at her. He managed to sit up. Carol hugged him close, squeezing him tight. He closed his eyes again, wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her hair. It felt good to be held like that, to feel her warmth, her chest rise and fall with each breath she took. He held onto to her and slowly, gradually felt himself relax. All the fear, the dread and the pain drained away and what was left was the realisation that the woman he had loved for so long was there by his side, holding him, peppering his face with kisses. He found himself smile despite of everything and disentangled him enough to be able to kiss her as well. He surprised himself by the intensity of that kiss, by the naked need he felt as his lips touched hers. He needed to feel her, to taste her, just to assure himself that he was still alive, that there would be a tomorrow, and everything had not been in vain.  
The moment ended far too soon, but he was short of breath and did not want to risk another coughing fit. Carol smiled warmly as she let him go, but not without placing a kiss onto his forehead.  
“Oh God, Tony, you had me worried for a moment there,” she said. She was trying to sound flippant, but Tony wasn't fooled. Her concern meant more to him than he was able to put into words. He grinned. His eyelids were already getting heavy again. He shook his head in an attempt to stay awake. There was so much he wanted to say but it was no good. He was just too tired. He couldn't even think straight anymore.  
“It's alright,” he heard Carol say. “Sleep tight, Tony.”

Chandler wasn't surprised to find Carol in Tony's room. He tiptoed over to the bed to leave his bunch of flowers in order not to wake either Tony or Carol, when a whisper caught his attention.  
“I'm awake.”  
Joe turned and saw Tony smile up at him from the bed. He tossed the sheets aside and got up. He yawned, stretched and gestured in the direction of the corridor. Joe nodded, and the two men left Carol on her plastic chair. When Joe had closed the door behind him, he turned to Tony: “Should you be up already?”  
The profiler grimaced but waved a hand through the air. “I'm fine,” he croaked. “And be glad you didn't get to see me in my hospital dress.”  
Chandler grinned. “I can do without getting to see your naked behind, thank you very much.”  
Tony paused and threw him a dark look, but then smiled. “I bet you do. Thanks for coming by, I was getting worried I'd die of boredom!”.  
Chandler said nothing and forced the memory of a gun shot from his mind. “I just wanted to see how you were doing,” he said eventually.  
Tony shrugged his shoulders. “Not too bad, all things considered.”  
Chandler nodded. They walked down the corridor in silence. When they'd reached the lifts, Tony asked: “Do they have a park?”  
Chandler nodded. “Shall I go back and get your jacket?”  
Tony laughed, which turned into a mild coughing fit. “No, mother. I just want to catch a breath of fresh air.”  
They had the lift to themselves, for which Chandler was grateful. After a moment of silence, he said: “About Mansell's party... I'm sorry about what happened. You know, between Carol and me? I didn't mean to...”  
Tony cringed but slapped the DI's shoulder. “Let's forget about it, alright? It all turned out well in the end.” He grinned. “Besides, I doubt I'd stand half a chance if I wanted to punch you in the face.”  
“You wouldn't,” Chandler kept his face straight. “I used to be a boxing champion.” When he heard Tony suck in a breath, he added: “In junior school.”  
Tony chuckled. “Don't make me laugh. You know how the old joke goes: 'doctor, doctor, it only hurts when I laugh...'”  
They left the lift and walked past the reception, out into a miserable grey November day. It was just past two o'clock in the afternoon, but the clouds hung low and hid the sun from sight. Tony sighed and breathed in the cold air. After the hospital air with its smell of disinfectant and misery, even the London air felt clean.  
“Tony?” Chandler began again after they had walked around the building and into the park. Most of the benches were deserted and only a few die-hard smokers stood around in clusters, shivering in the chill wind.  
“Hmm?”  
“Carol and you... Are you...?”  
“An item?” Tony finished the sentence for the DI. He couldn't help the stupid grin that spread across his features. “We're working on it. But yes. Yes, I guess you could call it that.”  
Chandler stood and held out his hand. “Congratulations and good luck.”  
Tony shook it and grinned. “Thanks. I'll need all the luck I can get.”  
“Oh, by the way, we found our killer's diary. CSI has it all photographed and dusted, and Patterson scanned it, so I brought you a copy. Thought you might like to take a look.”

Tony spent the rest of the day and most of the night reading through what turned out to be John Bradshaw's diary. Parts of it reminded Tony of his own childhood. He could relate to the isolation, the sense of not belonging, of having been alienated and cast out as a kid. It sent shivers down his spine, wondering not for the first time what in his past had made him take a different path from John and all the other murders he had helped catch. What had been the deciding factor? The one thing that made them pick up the blade, gun or whatever weapon and which had sent him to his books instead? What had been his saving grace? He let the pages sink onto the blanket and rubbed his eyes. Thoughts of Carol flashed through his mind. Was that the answer? That he could still feel love, no matter how complicated matters were? It was a rather reassuring thought. He picked up the pages again and continued to read until he fell asleep only an hour before the morning round.

The next morning Carol found Tony packing. Despite of the fact that he had come to London with only a small over-night suitcase and his laptop, he had created some chaos in the hospital room. Carol grinned as she watched from the open door as Tony managed to spill the contents of his sponge bag onto the floor. And as usual, several blue plastic bags were littered around.  
“Where on earth do you always pick those up?” Carol asked.  
Tony startled and dropped the items he had just picked up from the floor once more. “Carol!” His smile lit up his face and Carol felt her heart skip a beat. He rushed over to her, then hesitated.  
“Guess, I have to hug you then,” Carol mumbled as she drew Tony close in a fierce embrace. He hugged her back and held her tight for a moment. When he let go, he asked: “It's all real then?”  
Carol smiled. “As real as you want it to be.”  
He shot her a cheeky grin. “I'm done with daydreaming. What are you doing here, by the way?”  
Carol slapped him playfully. “Picking you up, of course. I bet it didn't even occur to you that your room expired two days ago.”  
Tony's eyes widened in alarm. He sat down on the edge of the bed and hung his head.  
“It did?”  
“Yes, Tony. I picked up all your stuff, remember?”  
Tony nodded. He suddenly looked crestfallen. “I'm officially on sick leave until the end of the year,” he muttered. “So, it's kind of useless if I return to Bradfield.”  
“Oh, don't be silly,” Carol chided him. “You don't have to. You can stay with me. If you want to, that is.”  
Tony looked puzzled. “But weren't you staying in a hotel as well?”  
“Ah,” Carol grinned. “Yes, but only for a few days. My upstairs neighbour flooded his bathroom when a pipe broke and it all leaked down into my flat. I had the builders over, but they've finished last night. You're welcome to stay.”  
Tony stared at her for a long moment. Carol began to fear that she had said something wrong but then Tony smiled. “Oh. Well, yes. I'd love to. Stay with you, I mean. If it isn't too much trouble.”  
“Are you kidding? It's about time we change the roles, you've been my landlord long enough.”  
Tony grinned and with Carol's help managed to pack everything. Quarter of an hour later, he was sitting in Carol's car, staring out of the window into the traffic. The radio was on, a low murmur in the background and the silence between was amiable.  
“Joe told me he gave you a copy of the John Bradshaw's diary,” Carol eventually said. “What did you make of it?”  
“In a way it's a typical story: abused and neglected as a child, ostracised in his teens... It seems that their grandmother made him, and his brother believe that they were only half a human being for being twins. Jack rebelled against this and took control, whereas John fully internalized the believe. That's what made it so easy for Jack to dominate him. And after Jack's death, he practicality became Jack. In his mind, he could not be dead. Jack had always told him what to do.”  
“It's quite tragic in a way, isn't it?” Carol mused. “Two lives for the price of one.”  
“Yes, but Jack turned it into their advantage. John basically ceased to exist when the twins left their grandmother's house and moved to Bradfield. He became an extension of his brother, his eyes and ears.”  
“But what made them kill?”  
Tony rubbed the bridge of his nose and grimaced as he swallowed hard. “Gee, it still hurts,” he muttered, reached for a small bottle of still water and took a mouthful. “The narration, if you can call it that, got pretty sketchy in recent years. Needless to say, that both brothers were highly disturbed individuals, suffering from paranoid schizophrenia, among other things. So, the bits and pieces we learn from the diary can't all be taken at face value. My guess is, that John wanted out. He had come back to London after his grandmother's death. He worked some odd jobs here and there and lived in the cellar, making sure that he remained unnoticed. He even rented the plot at Stepney City Farm. It was there that he met Lucy McBride. I've looked at all the photographs her mother gave us and there's one pic where you can make out John in the background. My guess is that he had fallen in love with her. But then his brother found him. I think it was Jack who killed Lucy. John couldn't face the loss, so he kept her body in the cellar of his grandmother's house. It's hard to tell what made him join in his brother's killing spree before his death. My guess is: a mixture of violent threats and sweet talk. And when Jack killed himself, John died too. In a sense. In terms of identity, he no longer existed. And now he's dead as well.”  
Carol chanced a quick look at Tony. He looked troubled, lost in dark thoughts. She pattered his knee quickly before turning her attention back to the road. “Let's talk about something else. Do you think you can manage a crème of mushroom soup and some mash for lunch?”

Carol hummed to herself as she tidied up the worktop in the kitchen. All the dirty dishes were in the dishwasher, the soup was simmering on the stove and the potatoes were almost ready to turn them into mash. She was well pleased with herself, the table looked inviting with Tony's flowers in a vase in the middle. Carol had decided against lighting a candle. Too much romance, she thought. Give the man time to settle in.  
She frowned as she glanced at her wristwatch. Tony had said he'd wanted to take a proper shower after he'd dumped his suitcase and laptop back in Carol's spare room but that had been more than an hour ago. Maybe he'd nodded off afterwards. He was not fully recovered after all, even though he pretended that he was. Carol climbed the stairs and frowned some more as the sound of running water greeted her. Automatically she quickened her steps, thinking all sorts of things and expecting the worst as she rounded a corner and stormed down the corridor which led to her bathroom. She drew a deep breath and knocked. “Tony?” She called out. No reply. She knocked again, louder this time. Still no reply. The water kept running. Carol felt her heart leap in her chest as she tried the doorknob. It turned without resistance. Feeling somewhat relieved, Carol pushed the door open and peered into the room. Steam filled it. The mirror and the small window were fogged over. The air was moist and hot and stepping into her bath felt almost like entering a tropical hothouse.  
“Tony?” She called out again. Again, she didn't get a reply. As she moved closer to the shower cabin, she was just about to make out a silhouette inside. “Tony!” She realized that he stood motionless underneath the hot spray, head resting against the tiles, shoulders slumped.  
Carol hesitated for a moment, then quickly undressed herself. She opened the glass door of the shower cabin just wide enough to slip in. If Tony noticed the cold gush of air which made goose bumps crawl over his back, he showed no sign of it. Carol placed a careful hand on Tony's shoulder and felt him tense. She caressed his neck and placed a kiss between his shoulder blades. She felt him tremble and gently turned him around. He stood there in front of her, head bowed, eyes downcast, the perfect picture of misery.  
“What is it, Tony? Talk to me,” Carol pleaded. She caressed his cheek, feeling the stubble and lifted his head by the chin.  
Reluctantly Tony met her gaze. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. He blinked furiously, then forced a deep breath and whispered: “I couldn't do it. I wanted to, Carol. I really did but I couldn't.”  
“Do what?” Carol asked.  
“Kill him,” Tony spoke the words in an anguished sigh. He squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed hard. “I had the gun, Carol. I knew I had to use it if I wanted to save you and myself but I couldn't pull the trigger. I just couldn't!”  
“Oh Tony,” Carol hugged him tight and held him. “It's okay, it's all over. Don't blame yourself, you are not trained for situations like that.” She ran soothing circles over his back. By and by his trembling subsided. Carol had to force her mind not to drift. There she was, naked underneath a hot shower with Tony Hill and knowing him, he had not even realized the possibilities of the situation. She bit her lip to stifle a slightly hysterical laugh and slowly lifted her embrace.  
Tony wiped at his face; eyes still closed. “I... I thought of Michael. How I killed him, even though I didn't want to. When he attacked me, all I wanted was to defend myself, to knock him out. Still, I killed him. I knew that killing John Bradshaw was my only chance. But I was afraid. To cross the line. I feared that if I pulled the trigger, I'd be no better than him!”  
Carol framed Tony's face with her hands and lifted it up gently. “Look at me, Tony.”  
When he faced her, she looked him directly in the eyes and spoke intently: “You'll never be like them. Never! You hear? You are compassionate. The difference between the murderers we hunt and you is that you understand pain, Tony. You don't thrive on it. You are many things. Complicated, strange and what have you, but you are not cruel.”  
Tony looked dazed for a moment. He blinked again, then managed a tremulous smile. He took Carol's hands in his and kissed them. “How on earth did I ever manage without you?”  
Carol laughed. “You messed up.”  
Tony grinned. “Just wait a minute...” His eyes widened. “You're in the shower with me. We're both naked.”  
Carol grinned as well. “Clever lad. I usually take my clothes off when I shower. Although not doing so would save me the trouble of doing the laundry.”  
Tony pulled a face. “This is not what I meant.”  
“What did you mean then?”  
“I'll better show you,” Tony gently cupped Carol's face and kissed her. Fleetingly at first. He enjoyed the softness of her lips, the cocoa butter taste of her lip balm, the simple fact that he could now kiss her all he wanted. When her lips parted, he did not hesitate. He let his tongue slip inside her mouth. The sudden heat still took him by surprise and made him shiver. He moaned and felt Carol smile. He deepened the kiss, running his fingers through her wet hair. Her hands caressed his neck and the back of his head, the touches being wonderfully delicate and feathery.  
After another long moment, he withdrew slightly to catch his breath. He was pleased to see that her cheeks were flushed, and she was panting. “Would you mind if we left the shower?” He asked.  
Carol giggled. “What? You don't wanna turn into The Thing from the Black Laguna? Come on, then.” She turned the water off, took Tony's hand and stepped out of the shower cabin. She led him straight to her bedroom. When Tony hesitated briefly in the middle of the room, she dragged him along and gave him a little shove. Tony landed flat on his back in the middle of the bed. Before he could protest, Carol joined him. She lay down next to him and snuggled close. Their noses were touching, which made Tony chuckle. She ran her fingertips along the outlines of his face, thinking that she could get lost in his brilliant blue eyes. God, she even loved the tiny laugh lines around his eyes. She kissed him again and this time things got heated pretty soon. When Tony came up for air, he pulled the blanket up around them, knelt between her legs and began to kiss his way down Carol's throat, explored her breasts and trailed more kisses further down until his head had completely disappeared underneath the sheets.  
Carol gasped. “Tony! What are you...? Oh!” She sighed with pleasure as Tony's tongue found her most intimate spot. At first Tony was a bit shy but soon grew bolder as he drew moan after moan from her lips. She urged him on by rocking her hips, liking the feel of his hot, wet tongue down there. One of his hands held her hip down gently, the other fondled her breasts, teasing her hard nipples. Sweat tickled down her back, ran into her eyes but she didn't mind. She enjoyed the unexpected heat that raced through her body far too much. Another flick of his tongue and he had her coming. “Oh God,” she gasped. “Stop, please stop, I can't...” The rest of her words got lost as Tony pressed his tongue down a little harder. “Oh!”  
She hardly felt it as Tony collapsed next to her. Her head was still spinning, every nerve-end tingling with delight. When her head cleared a little, she sighed. “Damn it, I should have known you have such a wicked tongue!”  
Tony stared at her, then giggled. “I thought you'd be pleased to have me shut up for once.”  
Now it was Carol's turn to giggle. “Don't you think that method will look a bit awkward in front of the team?”  
Tony laughed so hard, tears were running down his face. He wiped at them with the back of his hand. “I'm not sure I wanna have Kevin watching.”  
Carol rolled to her side and smiled. “Kiss me again,” she demanded.  
Tony was only too happy to oblige her. A slight shiver passed through his body as Carol's arms wrapped around his neck. She drew him close. He moaned as her warm body pressed against his. The soft weight of her breasts against his chest made him dizzy. His head began to spin and yet he'd never felt better.  
“Tony,” she whispered into his ear after the kiss had ended. “Do you mind if I touch you?”  
He shook his head. “Of course not, you've been doing it all the time.”  
“No, I mean...here,” she let her voice trail off and her hand slip between his legs. He tensed. Her free hand caressed his cheek. “Don't think, Tony. Hold me,” she took his hand and placed it on her bum. “Kiss me.”  
He nodded and found her mouth again. Carol took her time and gently stroked Tony's dick. It was half hard already but Carol didn't want to point it out, in case it made Tony over-think things. When Tony had relaxed a bit, she stroked harder and then fondled his balls. Tony moaned. Carol stopped kissing him and instead started to suck on his nipples. After a little while she had him fully hard. His moans and incoherent ramblings were music in her ears. He was pleading by now, if for her to stop or to go on, Carol was not quite sure. A few more strokes and he came with a scream. Carol grinned as she wiped her hand on the bed sheet and stretched out next to him. He lay there, breathing hard, eyes closed, a far-away expression on his face. Carol let him recover. She too was out of breath. It felt good to feel the sweat dry on her skin in the cool air of her bedroom. When Tony's breathing had evened out, she rolled onto her side and kissed him gently on the lips.  
“Hmm?” Tony stirred. He blinked and when he caught sight of her, frowned. “I'm sorry,” he muttered in a barely audible voice.  
Carol's eyebrow rose. “Whatever for?”  
“For...” Tony visibly cringed and hit his face in the pillows. “For not lasting longer.”  
At first Carol felt the urge to laugh. This man could be so utterly ridiculous sometimes! But then the implications of his statement hit her, and she swallowed down her laughter. Instead, she snuggled up to him and kissed his neck.  
“You don't have to apologize. Not now, not ever. Do you hear me? I love you, Tony. That's all that matters.” She smiled. “Besides, you just came. For me. That's not a bad start at all.”


End file.
